There is no damn way anyone would want to come
and drag me out of the poppy field;
my life, oozing out and mixing reds
with the poppy flowers.
music begins swimming inside my head,
is this how it ends?
my funeral march a song only I can hear?
it’s that music –
the music that used to beat my head lifeless,
along with 15 empty bottles of beer;
the music that made me buy skeins of rope
and more alcohol and razor blades and anything else
that might kill the pain;
the music that suggested all sorts of immoral acts,
bad behavior and all things,
crimes against my very soul –
I fought them off like angry bastards.
– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 4:00 pm