lock me in iron cages
with bolts casted from the precious metal.
there is no reason that i should want to break free,
to fly far from this place:
the place of mass destruction.
ashes from the forests that had once loomed up high scatter the ground.
and even though the embers still flicker with heat,
you force upon me actions of gay occasions
until i can no longer dance.
the scolding currency only grants you temporary pleasure
and your greedy hatred throws me back into bars
that inevitably singe tender wings.
the entire complexity of the routine seems to baffle even the most astute of minds
on how gleeful emotions can arise from such torture.
upon what ground did you decide that expelling exhausting waltzes from a creature
once decorated with synonyms from beauty
was going to make you magical?
a/n: ok remember last author's note? well i'm adding on to it,, i highkey hate all of my old poems. they slowly start getting better at "zack", i think... but yea, that's all, i'm done trying to assure you guys that these poems get better
YOU ARE READING
the beekeeper.
PoesíaVent Poetry Warning: Strong language Trigger warnings: Schizophrenia Self Harm Abuse (physical, verbal, and sexual) Gore
