I am writing poetry
I am a sick writer
Backwards and written already
And Inclined to shock, inclined to numb.
Designed to love, made to hurt.
Loved to be, being loved.
Till they surrender and shoot themselves
With their lead
In their own little bug heads.
I am forwards, sprinting down an icy street
Walking with purpose and nonsense.
I love to love,
I love to be dangerous.
Me being me,
Wishing to do danger
Like a gourmet meal on my tongue.
I can feel it coursing through my blue veins.
The blue I see I want to poke it.
Let the red come out,
Flowing, gently…tickling my arm.
Watch out, because here my real self comes.
by Amanda Riva
January 9, 2011