veins flowing through our hearts not unlike delicate tree roots
pumping out blood, synchronising with the therapists in our speakers
that is life
but we rebel
we slash through our veins with enticing metal blades
with no thought to consequence
we rip out our hearts and hand them to strangers
with not so much as a smile in return
and we never listen
YOU ARE READING
dark poems
Poetrythis seems like poetry and prose sometimes it's more than you'd suppose see, what my mind creates, goes but what that is, nobody knows
