The memento mori painting that hung under the flickering lights
Grinned wickedly. The knives strung together dripped with rub red blood–
The museum, a quiet place at midnight.
What lurks in the corner, she didn't know, her skull blasting and screaming in agony
The rush of blood that gushed through her arm dropped to the floor, the final drop for the awakening;
It was done– Señor Burlandead had come to life.
The halls, a lonely moor, closed in on her, her eyes falling to the floor–
Her stringy hair slick with sweat, her bloodshot body falling to the floor like a pile of dirty laundry that no one wanted anymore.
She looked up once again, eyes flashing and screaming with hatred;
The one who took her life away, sent her to a place she didn't belong
The glint in her father's frozen orbs as he ends her life so fast that it's all a blur–
I watched from the side because there was nothing I could do to save her.
YOU ARE READING
broken, bitter unsaid things
PoetryA collection of my poetry about things in my life that are not very frequently talked about. Let me know if reading these poems makes you want me to write a book using fictional characters but have the same plot as my life.
