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poets rather kill
the stillness swept away the dark sky, an hour planned for the planning,
of murders and quixotic deeds , some find pleasure in crimson spills,
but I, I envision something worse.. your silk kissed cerise sighs upon my cheek. dreadful.
shattering bones seems simpler than holding onto them, especially yours. to grasp your shoulder, to merely touch you, feels like an impossible feat.
disposing of a lifeless body appears gentler than discarding emotions for you. escaping from a crime, hiding away, seems more tranquil than evading your presence.
as i etch my thoughts onto paper, contemplating our countless impossibilities, i come to a realization.
why should I be a lover, When being a killer seems easier? sweat and blood on my hands easier than your hand within my grasp.
the impossibility of us, it consumes me, so I'd rather be consumed too.
in this hour, where all slumber, two think of murder.
