My eyelids are itching,
every eyelash weighs that of earth,
its struck with famine,
as yesterday night it flooded,
leaving everything barren, lips in a straight line,
and face, a white desert;
as for how it feels, maybe a hundred times emptier
the parasites have get inflected,
as my blood is now contaminated,
a weak pulse, a throbbing ache,
well, as for my sake,
don't mind my body's antiques
its even a wonder
how it hasn't yet turned into ashes.
-She answered the concern in his eyes and then walked away. Their shoulder blades brushing.
YOU ARE READING
THE GIRL WHO SPOKE POETRY
PoetryThe thing about pain is, it makes you question.. what makes you human? ____________ **Not cliche, I repeat, Not cliche, WARNING, not cliche**
