I am a passionate corpse
For I am dead--
While being alive.
Living in this non-existent world,
My mind isn't found
It is stuck somewhere
Resting beyond the depths of my soul
Was lost and never found.
This is not bound to be understood,
But something that could feed
The hunger of a soul
A dead soul
How I long to be alive,
To be once living
To breathe again,
To dream again,
But now, dead
Nothing but a wishful dream
And so I wrote
What my mouth cannot speak
Let my words fill the gaps
Of my emptiness
For nothing ever matters,
Let me write my trash
A beautiful junk--
Let me write it all
YOU ARE READING
The Passionate Corpse
PoetryCorpses are gross, dirty and foul-smelling. At times, they're scary to look at. But curiousity enthralls upon something unpleasant. Amidst the ugliness, it satisfies the dark part of our soul-not meant to be human. Something about it is unnatural...
