Made of glass with obsidian eyes.,
Her body is a rigid stone, and her lies
Are cold to the bone.
This woman can eat you alive
And spit out the bones without ever being known.
You are nothing but a memory to her.
You are nothing but an old imaginary woman's cure.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PoetryI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
