Spoken to with kind words at the stoke of midnight. The words bite with slow caution as you take out a knife.
Wolves are howling to the savior above, while you are the knot tearing everyone apart
Knife in hand, aimed at my skin, you switch the compassed direction of the sleek knife.
Blood spreads out on you like butter and onto me too but angelic in sight, I do too. There we lay till we are in heaven. Our destined area, our destined metaphor. Services shall be held with all mighty promise and I get flowers,
in my heaven all day.
// hey so guys I'm learning Hebrew and THIS STORY ALMOST HAS 40 PARTS YEAH!!//
YOU ARE READING
My Unstable Poetry
PoetryA diary of sorts. 2015-2017. A poetry collection of angst, depression, and epiphanies.
