We have a fan club for our inner feelings.
I obviously get obsessed over hate, greed and sadness,
But the other people in the room, they have much worse,
And yet as I try to empathise with them, I cant
And they try to empathise with me, they cant,
And ass we cast our sorrow is cast into the abyss
we call the circle of truth,
everything shuts down and it is all let out,
melancholy.
We are the tissue culture, that nobody would want to make organs out of
I engrave hate in my ribs so I can remember this day.
We all know as one being.
The day: et nihil humanium. When we become no one.
We are no humans.
Just souls who can't find their bodies.
Wandering vagabonds of the heart.
And as we mingle our way into everyday life,
Sweltering with selfishness and heartbreak
We mix and concoct new conundrums
Swallowing my pretty little hands whole.
And even though I'm never fun to be around
Or try to be happy
And compliment her looks or his smile, a pair of aesthetic eyes.
I can never distinguish if I am the monster or the victim.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry. Dark.
PuisiThis collection of poems is dedicated to anyone who has tried to live but events have led them astray It is a mix of dark, somewhat rediculous and poems of the heart, all written to help myself get through the last couple of months Some of these poe...
