I've died many times
within poetry...
Cotton fog pillows -
I see your long embracing...
Poetry, no one knows you as much as I do,
you are not beauty born from roots...
Weaving my way through littered alleyways
which separated the past and the future...
I've found a new genre,
Something that suits my insanity...
Contusions of the soul
turn to scars and scabs...
He wishes for the blackest plague, upon a...
She wishes for a hurricane of blood, to drown us...
Untie the laced lines
you keep within, I'll stay through...
These walls you've built around you
to try and save yourself...
It's a darkness
It's a void...
Spilt blood all over. Not wasted but with purpose...
I thought your picture was burnt
in my eyes but I was wrong. Never...