wipe your prismatic eyes and
smudge the rainbows of
teardrops streaming down;
straighten your burdened spine
and march towards the moon
with your heart served on a plate
to be savoured by a pack of wolves.
your worn out fingers play the chorus
of the song on repeat; your head's
dizzy with the bleeding melody.
you're a painted face in the dollhouse;
you're on a carousal of torture
that never stops spinning.
YOU ARE READING
girls. girls.
PoetryIt's a shame how they're considered muses and at the same time their blood taints the canvas. (#57 in poetry on 18/08/2016) All rights reserved. © DirectionerRia17
