Hives spindled the audience's flesh, scratching the itch they needed.
A moth cauterizes, applying heat to the wounds as they bite on the allergies down their throats.
They were manipulated too easily by a fool called a "playwright."
The life they performed on paper with a maneuver twitch.
They watched the sweat bleed from all the pores.
I've seen playwrights in pretty glass displays,
but similar to a fly adhesively sickened in a spider's web,
trampled and tangled in the medial.
This 'dramatist,'
this 'artist,'
this 'poet,'
this 'playwright'
does not mimic the eyeliners that span the entire length of their temples.
The dialogue they dress in
and the memoranda they yield
were a bird of prey.
An art of crazed yet sane-hearted war.
I was never gullible enough to be manipulated.
Because I wear the same
addictive war paint too,
we're defined as artists.
Welcome to society.
YOU ARE READING
: ̗̀➛ Poetry: A Journey
Poetry↳ ❝ And I realise that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it's all in my mind ¡! ❞ ·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Poetry is an art that can touch the soul the same as music or even a...
