I was murdered,
2 years ago.
But it wasn't real,
The knife was a prop,
The scene was a joke,
And I was laughing along.
I was loved for a little while.
Then I lost the touch.
And the heart to act,
As how I present myself.
A sickening display
of your favorite trope of man.
Careless, smiling.
The edge of lips chained to the corner of eye.
chin tilted at you.
Half a grin,
with the other locked in place.
Numbed.
A pair of pupils with,
So much truth and disdain in them.
I picked it up after,
I was murdered,
2 years ago.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoetryA small collection of poems which I write when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
