they don't make blades like they used to.
one sweep had crimson seeping out,
only slightly pinching to make way for the rest.
the delicious itch of a fast swelling line had me tracing bumps,
remembering the thoughts that constantly flow through my head.
my fingers move rapidly over pages,
in attempt to make poetry dark enough, my mind gets put to shame.
voices sing and swarm in my head, my pen is still moving.
no blood has been shed,
no nerves have been calmed,
it's all just tired tired tired
they don't make blades like they used to.
YOU ARE READING
wordlings
Poeziei like words. so i write them. now you have to read them. cover by -daisukii
