Storms are blinded by their own eyes,
And yet they still can see the devastation
That I've done. That I've worked so hard
To annihilate.
I'm a tsunami, fleeing like a refugee
Bound by her own strings, with grandmothers wool
That she once used to sit and knit
I push through my marionette feet.
By now, I've surpassed every low level demise
There could possibly be, in every
werewolf call and full moon frolic,
fragmented by frantic sleep
And I wait a little while longer,
Just to allow the catacalysmic calling
The cats catching the ebony light,
I may use questionable slaughter
tonight.
YOU ARE READING
What He Told Me. Poetry
Thơ caI was told to share what I write by a guy. This is what I've done. Some of this is dark. Some of this is the inner workings of what is happening in my life. Im sorry for making you read this
