You love and lovely

After another failed attempt at poetry, it occurred to me that you are more than merely kisses and cuddles of an oft auditory nature.
You are reverberations of thought, echoing through my mind like a wandering bird who always know where to come home to roost.
You crisp and sharp, crackle in my mind, static in the dark, jolting me awake as I begin to bow to too heavy doldrums.
You soothe and soft, lay my head to rest on a pillow of thoughts of you and things that have will were.
Irreverent raspberries match the jiggle of your breasts as I cannot help (try as I might) but smile at each Mona Lisa's Mustache.
And still, when old thoughts of do-it-yourself death come knocking upon my straw hut, you blow back, you explode, substituting what once was hoped with a love that makes such hatred wither.
You beautiful bubble, you sunlight to my showers.
You loved and lovely, always are.

Hangups

I can feel the noose tightening, like the hug of a sandpaper friend lost to nostalgia. I can feel the familiar grip, lifting me up while I'm far too weighed down. Welcome back. Hell of a handshake.

It's been awhile since I mounted the gallows. Standing before the crowd, dodging glares and glances with all the skill paranoia has to offer. Hardly the ovation one hopes for. What's the fun in suicide if no one's left to laugh?

Love's nothing but a two-sided trapdoor. Builds you up before it lets you down. Hanging around til you're roped into some new uplifting scheme. You can already see the wood rotting, but it beats an unhinged hole.

It's knot your problem. Knot your neck. Throw away the key. Playing hangman with no vowels, I'm a man of Consonant Sorrow.

Tried by a jury of my mirrors, I'm once again the judge and elocutioner. Blades too barbaric, only good for shaving life off one river at a time. "Fie on your fatalism!" the barbers bellow. "I'll sink before I swim," I sigh.

I find my voice, sitting on the gallows. How quaint. It barely has time to stretch before it's silenced by the string.

No need to weigh me down, for I've no scarcity of stone. No need to play me down, for I've no scarcity of tone. No need to lay me down, for when I'm only bone, I'd rather look towards trapdoors than sneeze whilst I'm coffin.

Fit noose, my fancy fee
Come again to lift up me
Trapdoor's a breaking
And my feet are falling through.