Sick
Of you
Bugging me
Im hot
They call it fever
But its you
Disorienting my system
Distaste
Is the flavour
That covers my mouth
Cause darling its your warmth
Im searching for when I
Tug closer my blanket
I'm afraid I'll be cold again
Words wont come out
But neither would pain
My throats blocked
By lumps
That have nothing to do with me
Even though its me its made up of
A drugging necessity
You are my medecine
For I'm sick inside
Its after efects
That
Get me high
Before I come crashing
Like a comet
An asteroid
Destroyed
Before it destroys
Left
Before it lives
And I will never be the same
Not changing was never my speciality
YOU ARE READING
Less Than A Century
PoetryA collection of words I decided to call poetry. It takes only one To break To fix To live To die for To strive To be cruel To finally break To complete A Century
