the ugly inside comes to fore
black blooms red in the pore
rate the scale, the horrid score
never ending always more
point at my horrid face and shoot.
a needle bullet tunnels through
paint splatters in point-charted lines
the other side- scene of crime
silver steel sharp, sometimes scalpel
slice each fault open, actually, yellow
is an infected green, crimson is a bruised blue black sheen
dyed petals peeled back, sprouts crawling along vined veins, bloodiest you've ever seen.
each thought flows into snow-capped peaks
pustules with a password
to keep me humble
the ugly inside comes to fore
black blooms red in the pore
rate the scale, the horrid score
never ending always more
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
