The tulips were fine
until someone came along
with a Sharpie and drew
smiley faces on them.
The ink stung and burned as
they writhed in agony,
shriveling until there was nothing left
but black.
They died.
Were gone.
Expired.
Took up space in someone's
graveyard.
Eaten by worms.
But what if they could still feel it?
What if they weren't dead,
just had retreated to their subconscious?
They would feel every bite,
every stomp,
every "ick" carelessly thrown their way.
And then they'd want to die.
But without a body,
how can you kill yourself?
YOU ARE READING
Stormy Shoals: A Poetry Collection
PoetryAnother poetry collection from my heart, just letting the words bleed onto the page. I mask the hurt with pain, because pain demands to be felt. But hurt just demands to ruin your life.... 🖤🖤Trigger warning: everything🖤🖤 "Criminally underrated...
