Slipping into puddles
my fingers are frigid
with anticipation
I singe the carpet
with a sour cigarette
this being is sallow
With weary wings
they plow through the ozone
oiled feathers from 1996
Clutching my knees to my chest
fear creeping down my spine
like an icy serpent
...What if my heart stops beating?
Comments
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yeah.
pretty sick.
[:!
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this is extravigant... everyone else took the good words. this is really good
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I agree with Gwen. amazing
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This is brilliant...
It is so... dark, and yet, kinda hopeful. I like it, and I am feeling it.
It is pretty, and yet, something I wish never to happen, you know?
That made no sense...
Oh well
Gwen
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