~=°•°=~
Good grief, bad happiness,
This will be our little secret,
Cause even those that know me,
Doesn't know what I do,
Or what happens that relieve me,
I know... it's wrong but it helps,
It's better than comforting words,
It's better than telling someone my problems,
Look at my scars that line the ligaments
Of my indecent vessel of spiteful thoughts and immoral desires
They are the byproduct of my grandiose chase
For fornication, pleasure, and approval,
I'm ugly, like my thighs that are filled with words,
Permanently sewn, protruding from my rough skin,
The malicious words spell what you never ought to hear,
--the words you'd never have thought I would describe myself,
Lines are just lines and they are negligible,
Until they form letters, then they are a problem,
Until the letters form words, then it's catastrophic,
But if those words spill the unspoken legitimate truth of my hidden self... then it's apocalyptic,
~=°•°=~
YOU ARE READING
Poem Addiction
Poetry"A poet's greatest strength is his words; his greatest weakness is his emotions; his greatest addiction is his paper that is the world he lives in." -Eskay Kitz-
