"Each man kills the thing he loves." - Oscar Wilde

We’re all incapable
Of caring for you any less
I couldn’t throw my cancers
Further than my contempt for you
A slight of hand
That landed directly in your face
And now you’re ropable
And what more can I say
Actions speak louder than words
And the wind whispers kill.


With calloused fingers we call our names
We see them fall not far from our face
This is not perfection this is our time
And we care too much to continue bleeding
So we cease and our hearts struggle
Most of the time we only get half way
And it’s closer than we’ve ever been.


The ink stained yellow on the other side
In a trance we mock our former selves from a distance
We are afraid that we might accidentally beat the crap out of ourselves
I know only as much as I am taught
Someday I will be bloated and underwater
And by the time you hear my screams I will be so close
That my breath will brand your lungs.

Alex Post is from Melbourne Australia. His poetic influences include; James Munoz, Sandy Jeffs, Lord Alfred Tennyson and David Marion.

E-mail: Alex Post