Healing Spirits

This might be a little odd, because I wrote it over many days with my mood changing almost every single time I picked it up. But that's supposed to the message of it.


I would bless your sleepy blood with the fruits
of my tarnished heart, if only to dilute your
self induced sepsis. Prescribe to you tropical
medication and watch over your exhausted, bloodshot

core. It's three AM and I can taste your spirits
as you sleep; breathing in and breathing out
against the warm embrace of the mattress. Your form
would preach poetic were it not infused with

intoxication, poisoned by sugar rush migraines,
and drowned to sickly coma. You've whiskey on your
breath and black and blue wishes on your mind; shape
an angel metaphor around these lips. Just where did

you get those nasty scars, sweetheart? I think
you've met with the asphalt once too often; let me
wrap the faintest of atmospheres around your toxic
wounds as you drift in and out of consciousness.

My calling has always been to heal. To ease fallen
angels to their beds, and lay tortured minds embittered
with chalkboard headaches to soft pillows. In the glow
of my lamp I caught sight of your freckled face;

whispering razorblade threats and shivering with
depression. I stayed at your side all night long
but never meant to fall in love with you. Each kiss
soothed your charcoal words, but left me borderline

and sobbing bipolar rhythms - where were you when
I cried myself to sleep? Your hands were clutched
around the neck of a vodka bottle and your lips
were pressed to the rim of a shot glass. Disaster.

Anyone??

I would have commented earlier, but reading it left me speechless.

In one sense it’s magnificent. The wording and metaphors are simply brilliant.
On the other hand you repeat some words too much, or used too similar words with the same effect.

Ginger Nuts:

I would bless your sleepy blood with the fruits
of my tarnished heart, if only to dilute your
self induced sepsis. Prescribe to you tropical
medication and watch over your exhausted, bloodshot

core. It's three AM and I can taste your spirits
as you sleep; breathing in and breathing out
against the warm embrace of the mattress. Your form
would preach poetic were it not infused with

intoxication, poisoned by sugar rush migraines,
and drowned to sickly coma. You've whiskey on your
breath and black and blue wishes on your mind; shape
an angel metaphor around these lips. Just where did

you get those nasty scars, sweetheart? I think
you've met with the asphalt once too often; let me
wrap the faintest of atmospheres around your toxic
wounds as you drift in and out of consciousness.

My calling has always been to heal. To ease fallen
angels to their beds, and lay tortured minds embittered
with chalkboard headaches to soft pillows. In the glow
of my lamp I caught sight of your freckled face;

whispering razorblade threats and shivering with
depression. I stayed at your side all night long
but never meant to fall in love with you. Each kiss
soothed your charcoal words, but left me borderline

and sobbing bipolar rhythms - where were you when
I cried myself to sleep? Your hands were clutched
around the neck of a vodka bottle and your lips
were pressed to the rim of a shot glass. Disaster.

See what I mean?
It’s a great poem however and you should be proud of it, and yourself

I love the ending. And well, everything.

Big surprise here: I love you. Oh snap what!?

Thank you for your criticism.

And yes, I love you too Panda...