I've found that all we are is flesh and bone.
We're prepackaged bodies for the taking.
We are no more than flowers wilting, flown
To distant seas, a ribcave that's aching.
I've spent my life writing lies, I the false
Prophet. Ah, here I stitch fool's golden thread.
My wife, my dearest, shant accept my waltz
Of glittering folly-full tales. I'm dread.
Oh, once the bringer of sunshine scriptures.
The people shall now riot 'gainst my name.
How I wished for our minds to grow richer.
Seeing myself amongst dirt, not my aim.
You wont see me in glistening scales, no.
I've shed my past. I the next dish for crow.
YOU ARE READING
post writing class highschool poems
Poesiaim posting these here more for myself to keep them organised. also writing this are a p healthy way to cope so I'm gonna try to write more. reminder @ myself to start a new one once I graduate.
