We live for drama. Spotlights are lit. You are the protagonist. Your quote, "I'm looking forward to unity" ached my ears, for I knew it has
an asterisk****
Perhaps, titles are a corrupt thing or your skin has another skin that nudes itself around those who have your similar odor. Hushed words are loud in a room when we're alone. Blood from the back of those we loathe stains the floor as our lips
t h
r
o
w
knives at them.
What did we gain, really?
Your squared jaws are the origin of these pretentious shits. Your four eyes declared a war we were forced to join because you're sadistic enough to make us your enemy. Knowledge is power, but you're not a queen and we're not your pawns. It doesn't mean that when you're a genius, you're superior to us.
I love it when they ERUPT volcanoes and act like a helpless victim. When they prove their attitudes belong indeed in
e. r.
s. w. e. s.
When they shackle my ankles and wrists, then tape my mouth so I cannot revolt.
Your pride pierces through the clouds. Your mouth is a master puppeteer. Nobody dared to defy, for we always become the villain. Tables will never turn, for you screwed them on the floor. Spit. How disgusting.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
