Its a pretty little lie that we tell ourselves
That the devil is a monster too hideous to look at
Instead of a slick-tongued golden beauty
With a touch that leaves you woozy
Wrapping you in blankets held over a fire-pit
Why can't he see her
Holding a knife to his neck
Drawing blood and calling it wine
Using his bones to build her shrine
Sysiphus rolled his stone for the love of a woman
Why does he believe it
Why does she stay silent
Its a pretty little lie that we tell
To lead kings to slave in Hell
While she sits in Heaven sipping on his tears
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Maybe I'm Just Getting Older
PoésieLove, anxiety, hope, fear, identity, and pain are all things that we experience while growing up. This is a collection of poetry from my personal experience being a teenager and some poems about books I have read. Feel free to critique my poetry or...
