oh, how ecstatic it is to feel parasitic worms crawl out of the flesh of my decaying carcass with dead skin cells falling like debris-to not-so-gradually puke out my intestines and reveal the truest form of my grotesquerie. to bleed carnage and turn manic at the spiral of metaphors found on the remnants of my fragmented bones.
oh, to fucking die
for poetry
over and over again.
YOU ARE READING
graveyard of buried souls
Poetrythrough feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings. and here she u...
