useless—that's what i am, Useless—
that's what you make me feel;
because that's what i was
and what i will be
i can feel the make-believe hands of yours,
crawling up to my throat.
resting there—and gently squeezing the life out,
of my newborn lungs
which results in the excruciating, irrevocable urge—
the longing and the want
for death
YOU ARE READING
secrets from the lair
Poetryan anthology of bad poetry, but who cares [the lowercase letters all throughout are intentional, they're not grammatical errors]
