This way and that,
Hither and yon;
Torn by extremes,
Trying to hold on.
I want to remember
A time of "before".
There have been too many.
My mind is a whore.
She flirts with destruction
And sells out to lies;
Taking abuse
With its fake-smiled prize.
She's no better than dirt,
Though filled with gold,
A masochist true -
Her own whip she holds.
It is a cycle,
Like Ouroboros.
I am that serpent.
I shrink as I grow.
A contest entry
- Poets, whores and sluts by Angelo di Luce.
430 points, ended November 22, 6 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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it goes to prove, it`s all in the mind
nicely done
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