my words dwell inside my bosom,
like a crown made of art,
they sit up, proud and fearless,
like my own story told in parts
sympathy rises below me,
and each above both of my arms
for this once in my life,
something is proud of my very scars
so I treasure away my poison,
in tiny bottles of mystical glass
and meekly lock them outside,
in view, yet
completely hidden from all night stars
I visit them in secret,
and pour away more of my own,
now they're towering over my wisdom,
and guiding my way back home
a curious figure hovers sometime,
almost locking in vision,
almost catching them at sight,
I wonder how it shrivels,
and yet moves away despite
maybe my own mind is the venom
and words, my impenetrable might
YOU ARE READING
• tainted •
Poetryi wonder if there's pride, i wonder, there's remorse my heart's a burning drought, my feet, a broken hose? glass beneath my toenails, are all those tears painted? there's dust behind the veils, or am i just tainted? [poetry] a third eye aesthetic fr...
