When I think about this I’m never truly sure.
I have extended my motives,
And done nothing.
I have fallen in love with a poison apple.
I’m bathed in my papers where I breathe my
Thoughts, and burn my secrets.
But death is the only dialect I dream to speak.
It screams,
Like an addiction it’s both crazy and lustful.
I might have, in life,
Dreamed this intruder,
Ingested this intruder,
Given it it’s life and meaning.
Just like this, scheming and scary,
Steamier than hells caves,
I have thought to myself, burning at the earlobes
Could dying be the answer to unwed problems,
Burned souls,
And scorched egos?
It is there that “it” waits,
Burning under my tongue,
Begging to be spoken.
But death is the only digestible substance,
Unearthed by all means,
Declared in a thousand languages.
Here in this, I am bound,
broken, and bridged.
Torn between tolerance and torment.
But death is the only audible sound.
It stands unmasked, unbroken,
Undressed, and screams, beckoning me.
It is here, among the paper,
Black and burned,
I hate everything, but death.
Popular Posts
-
she gave up her woman down at the alter and if she were "someone" i think you'd cry for her and tracey was asking if we were h...
-
In 2003 a new edition of Equiano’s interesting narrative was released with a slight yet extremely significant difference: Rapper and entrepr... -
'will you take the needle off the table?" 'YES!' i do not want to die, but i do want to be killed. when i am feeling m...
-
I woke up today and suddelny became afraid again. What if the wrong person reads this? What if i 'friend' reads it but doesn't a...
-
maybe the moral higher ground ain't as high as it seems maybe we are both good people done some bad things i just hope it was okay ...
-
the marigolds that grow out from under your finger nails really distract me. you force my head steady - but with a gentle cradle. there ar...
-
Abigail, the monster in you is bleeding through your nose. eye. ears. mouth. and you are crawling towards me. long pencil like fingers scr...
