My defeated soul
My spike crown
My bloody hands
My ripped legs
The pins in my dead mind.
My happy flaws
My name written on my forehead
With appealing incapacities
My blue eyes
Kissing tears of pain.
My coldness
My lost stimulus
My lost amans
Going for a dance with Death.
My ego,
Choking while drinking poisoned tea with Life.
YOU ARE READING
mortem
PoetryIf it wouldn't be enough I'd feel pages with my tears, burn desires with my flames and tear all apart with no regrets.
