I've seemed to begin to consume melancholy like a guilty pleasure
something about feeling something,
anything at all (anything to saw, even drill a hole in the anechoic chamber that I've manacled myself within and am desperately seeking escape since I've lost the key, realizing then that i no longer harnessed my freedom)
medieval torture that i inflict on my already inherent perpetual pain
a royal masochist
and a peasant lover
I've not known no greater hunger
than that of splints rawing my flesh
pink like the meat i knife into, diamonds and pearls
heirlooms and gold
head to toes
but I've got more than monarchy and mocking ancestry
weighing me down
I'm dying
each and every day
over and over again
rich in my own decay
all i do is fucking pray
pray, pray and pray
and not to rush you, god
but when the hell will i
resurrect?
sad bitch hours are TOO real someone show me a way out
YOU ARE READING
i really wanna scream
Poetryand so with that, in conclusion, sometimes all there's needed is a scream to shatter the glass around your own heart. tryna be poetic or whateva (not really succeeding tho!)
