Sleazeball king of the underlings
But a king, nonetheless
Spite stabs the knife into the side of a living mountain of flesh
As every second you prepare to drown under
The tears that you've seen shed
Not for me, but from them
The obelisks marking paths towards young ears
Goading and changing, shifting and molding
Whatever shall we make of you,
You horrible feathered aching?
Why do you shatter my heart, "pure one"?
Leaving me to fret over the pieces now molding?
Filthy rat man, dirty cat boy
Fox-faced worm with raccoon rings.
She loved you, maybe me
With screams of agony the number rises
Obliterations
YOU ARE READING
This is[n't] it
Poetry2021 note- This is more of an archive of old poetry now =) I like poetry. This is my first time doing something public, if not anonymously. I appreciate feedback, as long as it's constructive criticism. Any tips for getting a vague feeling out onto...
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