static seizes. wind sweeps a low hum of ants to crawl electric.
shock on cotton sheets wraps its steady hold. choke hold on
physique. frail outline, there's a future lifeline dripping into me. IV
grips like a scorned lover.
i should know.
scream as
reckless, high on organs belting gory. and yet, there's light
throughout the body. somewhat of a moon awakening probing
me out to breathe.
nesting dolls reminiscent, i keep coming to parts. there's 3 of my heads and
where are my legs? this manic fury takes to dance. i would cut the chords to
end their saving, but the nurse polishes ready, and my hands have
abandoned. i wonder
does she beast with her life the way
she forges into mine.
nourishment to survival with its tyrant entry, too loud for cures,
flooding in the same manner of illness,
boastful, arrogant with hell to raise. it tastes a menace to swallow each dose.
so what comes after medicine and the depravity of
suicide.
is this the exhalation of will, or one to lies:
where faith gives
its bitter hand, is it better to come to the sun's promise of
burning bright tomorrows' and the return of the
sweetest skies. or do i
lay down to the shackles of familiarity. that which holds so
loyally.
Persephone was damned to the throne, in the shadows'
of Pluto's desires. to rebirth! the selfish
cries of duty, my living, is a life of commodity.
to leave this refuge of hope -
i have a thousand tries waiting, for nothing is as loud
as a next episode.
shock on cotton sheets wraps its steady hold. choke hold on
physique. frail outline, there's a future lifeline dripping into me. IV
grips like a scorned lover.
i should know.
scream as
reckless, high on organs belting gory. and yet, there's light
throughout the body. somewhat of a moon awakening probing
me out to breathe.
nesting dolls reminiscent, i keep coming to parts. there's 3 of my heads and
where are my legs? this manic fury takes to dance. i would cut the chords to
end their saving, but the nurse polishes ready, and my hands have
abandoned. i wonder
does she beast with her life the way
she forges into mine.
nourishment to survival with its tyrant entry, too loud for cures,
flooding in the same manner of illness,
boastful, arrogant with hell to raise. it tastes a menace to swallow each dose.
so what comes after medicine and the depravity of
suicide.
is this the exhalation of will, or one to lies:
where faith gives
its bitter hand, is it better to come to the sun's promise of
burning bright tomorrows' and the return of the
sweetest skies. or do i
lay down to the shackles of familiarity. that which holds so
loyally.
Persephone was damned to the throne, in the shadows'
of Pluto's desires. to rebirth! the selfish
cries of duty, my living, is a life of commodity.
to leave this refuge of hope -
i have a thousand tries waiting, for nothing is as loud
as a next episode.