leave me to my creation, please, but
empty my head like canned food
take these skinny ribs and cook them
heat me up until my chest explodes into
a million pieces, and my heart cannot
replace the pieces which were lost in the blast
guarantee this to me, pinky promise me that
you'll burn me alive, eat up every single word
harrowing across fields after awakening
ill passes through my veins like salmon through a stream
lethargy consumes my limbs, but work is never done
lips will produce truths and lies alike, but who knows the difference?
YOU ARE READING
this fantastical world is too surreal (poetry #5)
Poetry"a rustle crackles underneath jackboots crossbow tight in hand she breathes one final breath before he pulls the trigger" you know the drill
