There's no sense in being sensible,
You'll die cold and numb and old.
I want raw carcasses and blistered hands,
A wealth of fractured errors,
Races I ran and overran,
Till the sun scorched my weathered feet bare to bone.
Everything I lust is terrible,
And my hands shake,
As I hesitate to grab it.
YOU ARE READING
Narcissist
PoetryI write poems so that you might like me. // Insomnia induced poetry.
