every now
and then
I would kiss
my sickness
and lick
all the
pathetic ness
off my fingers
they would
pour like
butterflies
into my stomach
and mouth and
dishonesty
all of times
and crimes
with five
arms reached
out to me
promising
all kinds
of torture
must have
been a
thousand graves
that made
up the caves
of my insides
and the insiders
that were
trapped
those mines
deep with
sleep of
emaciated angels
and mother
who starved
them all
Author notes
Sword of Damocles (n): something threatening disaster: something that threatens to bring imminent disaster
A contest entry
- Whatever by Phineas Red.
900 points, ended September 24, 2007, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
There was some awesome dark imagery in this.
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