Melyssa G. Sprott

The October Second Selected Poet is

Melyssa G. Sprott

Please feel free to email Melyssa at: sxyvxn79@yahoo.com

A DEFINITION OF LOVE

Shards of sleep slice deep my peace,
these blankets, my shroud—entomb.
Counting miles of ceiling tiles;
my cell, this place, my room.

Fragments of thought abandon me not,
those images my sanity betray.
Glowing designs lay upon the blinds,
wayward streetlights peer in this way.

Splinters of mind lost not to time—
instead to love most deep.
I cry the years those countless tears
through insomnia riddled sleep.

Pieces of soul, heart covered in holes
my entirety pervaded by pain;
awaiting death with bated breath—
but I’d love you all over again.

DESCENT INTO THE DARK

I’m cloaked by the shadows of the demons in my soul.
They hide in the valleys with the light that they have stole,
as I walk in the darkness of the void that makes me whole.

Wondering when Surrender comes if my white flag will fly,
as I wait for this moment like I’ve waited my whole life.
But freedom from this torment won’t come freely when I die.

Condemned to spend eternity suffering with the Damned.
No hope for survival, for I am dead where I stand.
Yet still fearing exile, because this is what I am.

INSURGENCE

I refuse to succumb to the spires
of grass beneath my feet,
though my last drops of blood
taint this paltry soliloquy.

Relentless is the light
that I find closing in—
it’s as ubiquitous as the dread
that creeps under my skin.

I will fight with all my strength,
like a thousand times before.
I’ll reveal my juvenescence
as I prepare myself for war.

From my furious choler
it will quake with great fear.
Though it’s time for battle,
this foe dares not draw near.

I’ll persistently proceed
until the egregious light atones—
I’ll attack until the moment
gravity lays claim upon my bones.

I refuse to succumb to the spires
of grass beneath my feet,
though nothing is left
of this paltry soliloquy.

KAMIKAZEE

A hundred years I’m falling in the street,
benign habits seem malignant in
the darker places where I weep.
A hundred years I’m falling,
I’m falling in the street; there
are no harmless tears
in the darker
places where
I weep.
A
hundred
years I am
falling, falling
in the street. Benign
habits seem malignant
in the darker places where
I weep. A hundred years I fall
and I’m falling in the street, benign
is malignant—these places that I weep.

Melyssa G. Sprott is dark and disturbing and has been expressing it with poetry and short horror stories since her birth. Her existence itself is an affront to all that is right and good in the world.