La Petite Mort of Creativity
Let me bleed out a moment’s release,
from this contemptible inner peace.
my tears are too clear of midnight ink,
my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.
I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,
for owls, magpies - among nests of unfamiliar
I churlishly spread my coquettish legs
seducing any passing stranger’s death.
To be touched - trembled by fingers of grief,
so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath
I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,
traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.
I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return
to break open my heart, leave me spurned,
filling this barren womb with words
that haven’t been born, read, or heard.
© Katypoetess 2016