Your top, charred with the fog of death.
Your bottom, orange with nectar.
With the help of a small sun,
you fill the room with your burning flesh,
such a sickening scent.
It's a calming sick, and oh!
Does it do just that.
Clears the mind,
helps undam the river that is the mind.
Many nights I sit here,
Watching your invisible fingers tickle the air.
As relaxing and soothing as you are,
one slip up and all I know is gone.
YOU ARE READING
Random Poetry
PoesíaIs it better to release your demons? Allow them to expose themselves to the world? Or to bottle them up, and allow them to consume your mind and soul until all things end? This is a compilation of poems from when I was as in school, as well as ones...
