I am thirty two,
Running from this place and you.
You will track my pace,
Potential homicidal case.
I am growing old,
Stitch and wash my skin threefold.
Caustic soda paste,
Make soaps from me and wash your face.
I am drowning inside,
Throw me a lifeboat and cut me wide.
You only get one chance,
String my bones and make them dance.
I am a blunt bayonet,
But I can still chop your neck.
You have a very fine taste,
Pity to let all this flesh go waste.
......
Abusive relationships. Enough said.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
