Showmanship, collections of maws, to be beguiled, diaries of the dead,
There's few other things that are more divine.
A baby's grip, diamond-dusted saws, hundred people cuddle piles, the taste of lead.
But no—I can't—I've got to stay in line.
They'll say none of these are worth my time.
Glass behind my eyelids, ink on my tongue, paint in my hair,
It's the autopsy of my life, the scene of crime,
The result of emotions, thoughts, truths I refused to share.
To be honest, I'm never sure.
Living like this is such a chore.
YOU ARE READING
to be released with clipped wings
Poetrya poetry book chock full of my teenage angst, because i am self aware of it but unwilling to quit. like, hell, if i am to be growing up in an age of anonymity and the internet, then lets fuck around and take advantage of it to vent to people i *don'...
