You can cry and call me a bitch,
but all I hear is the echo of the witch.
The close lover of dancing fire,
history stringing them up together at the spire.
His fragility couldn't handle our strength.
His weaknesses lead him to great lengths,
to destroy and burn and maim,
but we will never become tame.
You turn to a word to fight your battles.
You let the strength of us raise your hackles.
Only a coward would burn us,
finding us guilty and treasonous,
sentence us down, down to where you want us.
The crackle of fire is filled with a thousand voices,
so be careful what your choice is.
Call me a bitch, it doesn't matter to me,
You will find we keep on fighting, murderous and free.
YOU ARE READING
poems i came up with at 3 am
Thơ cabit of a dark/random poetry dump, might be a bit intense and nonsensical at times,
