O' sick child,
Sitting there
in my stead-
Plaguing my vision,
What a blight thou art
I refute thee
Thou and thy tendrils,
Of mattèd and filthy hair,
An act of defiance,
thou cherish it so
With thy emaciat'd phalanges,
Contort thy hair,
Stripp'd of its nature,
To boast thy conquests,
That thou take pride in
Thy blemishes that deface thy pallid neck,
Thy crack'd nails,
That thou hide with pitch,
Lethargy permits it to permeate
Thy lack of effort-
O' wretchèd boy,
Thou spit upon the laws
that bind thee-
Thou have the sick audacity,
To stare me down,
As if I am flawed
How eager thou art,
To tell me of the splinter in my eye,
As a branch sits in thine own
Thou gaze with adoration,
At thy complexion,
In the black mirror's deceptive reflection
Thou art taintèd,
And for that I do not thee refute,
Rather in thy selfish and abhorrent actions
YOU ARE READING
Technicolor Dreams
PuisiA bunch of poems I wrote, varying from romance to random things
