I'm actually a nightmare despite my outward looks.
I'm more of a cannibal like the ones you read of in books.
I have special desiers that doesn't seem normal.
It's called skin hungar- to be formal.
I crave the touch of human skin-
An accidental brush to begin.
I long for hugs and eternal kisses;
Except I turn people off with metaphorical switches.
Is it my scareed skin- the tally marks of my past?
Or is it my fully shown broken heart that rests in a cast?
Do all of these people know of my shame?
Are all my shattered pieces what brings me fame?
Until then I'm just another nightmare
That makes all the boys and girls scared.
Now that all my thoughts have spilled,
My hunger for skin may never be fufilled.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry... I guess
PoetryI took creative writing in Junior Year, and I plan on minoring it in college. Some of these might make sense, but others might not.
