Confessions of a Photograph

***It's now 3 minutes after 6 a.m. Just finished this little piece that I started during Co-op today...since I can't sleep. Technically, this poem is in relation to my sleeping habits and depression...you'll just have to read deep enough to find the relation. Is it dripping wet with sorrow? Oh, you bet. I'd have it no other way.
It's definitely not my best...just little scribbles I got down before it got too cold to sit outside anymore. (Night time gets really cold, did you know?)
Enjoy this demented piece as well as you can.***

Clinging to this burnt photograph,
blackened smiles that make me laugh.
But sting my eyes with tears,
pieces of broken glass pulling out my memories.

Tearing up this perfect photograph,
shreds of sorrow falling like crooked petals,
softly, silently, falling into a pile of romantic cliches.

Pour my life into a paper cup,
the exigent ashes fall and I can't pick them up,
as I stand in the mirror, spilling my guts.
I saw us lost in this photograph,
thought that nothing brought up the past?

Slices of agitaton drifting aimlessly upon my breaths,
the accumulating dust of broken cigarettes,
benevolently rolled up in enigmatic regrets.
Choking as fingers slip gently down my throat,
tenderly smothering tears concealed from those I love,
and I gag; retching fiery hatred through my lips
I'm left breathless by your stare.

Caressing this photograph,
smooth like skin, rough like alcoholic aftermath.
My heart is dented,
over aesthetic women who I've lamented,
bleeding hopeless desires through a broken etch-a-sketch.

Throwing out these photographs,
into the trash with my tears and laughs.
I feel your kisses fade as they slip into the night,
away from my tongue, away from my hollow corpse,
then again, maybe I'll be alright.

***P.S. I wasn't looking at a photograph while writing this :)
Wow, 27 minutes to finish a poem. I'm good.***