Misery does more
Than love company.
She invites you
Inside her home
And offers you
Some tea, maybe some
Fresh baked goods.
She tells you
To sit on her couch,
Plush and soft and
Covered in comfy pillows.
She says it's okay
To kick your feet up,
And brings you a blanket
With a smile
Wearing velvet gloves.
And you get comfortable,
And make yourself at home
Underneath the blanket
On that couch
Eating cookies and tea.
She will feed you
More, and more, and more,
And beg you to drink
And bury you under blankets.
And while blinded
In the hospitality
You don't realize
The weight you've gained
Nor the crushing pressure
Of those blankets.
She wears a smile,
And makes herself friendly,
But behind that grin
Is the desire
Of a sadist.
YOU ARE READING
Stygian. Stagnant. Solitary.
PoetryDarkness. Stillness. Loneliness. Three hells, amassed within the contents of a human skull to torture the mind. Artistically speaking, they are the kerosene that keeps the fire of poetry alive. Consciously, they're traumatically destructive.
