[ghosts.]
Kill them now,
As they are already dead.
Alive in a secretive,
Morbid way.
These ghosts that rome
Much too far
Have gotten perished
In their own smoke.
Pain held in
Second-hand.
Too far to hurt.
Too close to
Kill,
Kill,
Kill,
K i l l.
Inevitably possible,
Idiotically fallible.
And wrong.
Kill,
Kill,
Kill,
K i l l.
Fabulously detrimental,
Fatally beautiful.
No.
And right.
Because these same ghosts
Who rome much too far
Live in fear of life,
In hope of death,
And in love too shallow to kill.
YOU ARE READING
Still Sane
Poetry"... But that's okay, because despite all of this, I am still sane."
