At the most sore point
I'd place my finger now.
Yes, I would
Bother the wound.
Wreck each of the joints
Somehow.
The cause is my fault,
a poor redemption.
I've got a manic infatuation.
And turns out like it beats my worth.
And to weep, I don't mind,
But the tears won't come shed.
Silent torture instead.
Turn on the emergency lights.
Where extensive bleed is,
I will let it flow free.
I won't bandage it up.
Blood is red, turning green,
turning purple, dark blue.
Cold brewed.
It's a major, I hope.
I desire it fast,
A breakdown, a wreck.
Blood is going out vast,
Pressure's tight as a rope
On a hangman's neck.
joy of the worm
© Copyright: Неттер Линг, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123071205380
Свидетельство о публикации №123071205380
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