.we are our own hell.
close those tired eyes, empty-headed darling
the acid searing pain strikes through the same pupils that watched the sun rise this morning
whatever’s left inside doesn’t deserve to wither away like this
like a wilting daisy tucked into the buttonhole of some brash country boy’s overalls
it’s corroding now, burning and melting everything
just
close
those
eyes
the end of days is something they shouldn’t have to see
brainwaves bottlenecking and undulating
draining as an hourglass does while the sand runs from end to end, slowly, solidly
shut down and turn away, sweetheart
there is nothing left here
YOU ARE READING
Club 27 Has Reached Capacity - F. T. Willz
PoetryEvery poem by F. T. Willz I could find. Some of them are titled by me seeing as they didn't have any titles or dates to use as a chapter name, although every poem is definitely written by F. T. Willz. Enjoy.
