Metal
Hanging in the air so thick one could taste it.
Puddles and smears;
Markings, like warrior paint, across all.
Warmth emanating yet also cold to the touch.
Pounding in the ears,
Screaming to be let out.
Yet it should not.
Soul and life giver; it should not go to waste,
yet in this case it does --
For fighting to the death is a must.
Thriving off of taking it but never wanting to give it.
That is how life is.
YOU ARE READING
Inner Workings of My Mind
شِعرA bunch of different poems and thought processes I've had and finally have the guts to share. I hope you guys like them. *NOT MY PICTURE.* credit goes to who ever made the awesome picture that I'm using for the cover. I personally found it on Pinter...
