Pain was our religion.
And we'd submit to it completely.
Throwing our happiness at its alters.
Kneeling on the hard pillows of insomnia.
While we focus on forgetting that we are destroying ourselves.
-the psalms of heathens
You were so in love with your suffering.
That you made me feel like I had to hurt to be beautiful.
Pain is your religion.
So twisted the gospel that spewed from your cracked lips and tortured mind.
And I do admit, you are beautiful.
In that broken way that turns commoners like me into poets.
And drifting debris in space into blazing comets.
Your passion is killing you softly.
And you are too caught up in the aesthetics of it all to even care.
-the final blow
°°°
Two for one cause I'm lit like that
°°°
YOU ARE READING
EPIPHANY
Poetry"I'm desperately trying to heal myself." •. •. •. •. •. I strongly believe art isn't supposed to be pretty, or liked and understood by the masses. Art is supposed to make you unco...
