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What was the point of speaking
When you told me to speak?
Was there something hidden in your words
Just to make me weak?
Of course you did not care
About the things on my tongue.
But the taste of fear
Is what made you strong.
So easily you were intact
And I was wide open.
Even when I knew from the start
That it was your intention for this to happen.
It is my turn to be questioned
And it is my day in the guillotine.
For I have found that deception is my drug
And that lies are my nicotine.
I speak to you with open arms
And at once you have agreed.
Suddenly, I can feel your embrace around my neck—
It was into your guillotine I was freed.
For a time there was no escape
But while I am in your grasp,
I can feel the beat of your heart
But is slower than a tap...tap.
Ticking like the bomb you are,
I can feel the shudders with each turn.
For every move you make
Is a chance we might all crash and burn.
Why have I remained with my head
Under the wood and my soul
Near your furnace?
Perhaps it is your destruction I find so beautiful.
Sickly organs are scattered within me
And the one behind my temples is cheap.
Bought with the scraps of genetics,
I am a tossed mess and haunted heap.
For one day I thought I was normal
But everything was not as it seemed.
And slowly I dragged myself back
To my beloved guillotine.
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Hope in the Mourning
PoetryCOMPLETE ✔️ Highest ranking: #175 in Poetry! (3/15/17) - Where there is mourning, there is also hope. Despite the struggles and the losses we mourn-mental, physical, or emotional-good can come out of it. But even when there seems to be not hope as a...
