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you're not her
"I never cared for the ones who don't."
A shambled blade made of something not many if one could describe left Dan Lake in need of hospice, as it made his body better prescribed as perforated. his bleed was salty and such.
"and the others who do, well, they wont." spoken Poetry Bittersweet. she was all of 5 feet 4 and a few milligrams past well fit. still a sight for sore eyes and with a way of words spoken or typed she made them hit. the right notes.
with a penchant for kill.
her next reason was always the last ones mistake, do better.
Poetry never rested, though she sat down this one time
and in occasional seasons waited for the best wind. a being paid to make some wayward types depart their existence, a heart made of resistance
a new way to be.
she was wild
or so they tried to say, only men however lonely who ever saw her smile said
"it was worth it."
Picture this bruv, unsettled bricks lined the outer wares of a house with no name. the street sign said run and there were ragged pups outside
the weather has a reason to be so hostile yet it yielded whenever certain names dropped by.
one bloke monikered Dishes Malone was in town and he spoke with a northern patwa. you know the type.
90 words a minute of mostly threats accompanied by 3 billion sweaty and all too thirsty followers or nothing except violence and cool motorized bikes.
left of the pub sat Poetry,
in the drink a familiar face got fortunate enough to make haste when then arrived. never settling his tab
the drinks were hot. heat.
poetry removed her stabby thing from the remains of a local thief and almost took a deep breath.
oxygen didn't taste the same. and nitrogen was for pussies. so..
as she
entered
some felt themselves withdrew.
drawing from past and the possibilities of insides becoming askew she stepped forward after the doors groaned romantic.
"I'm not.." one usurper claimed before his collar bone was exposed and taken away, used as a wrench to make his ribs give space.
"I am Poetry. bittersweet.. this is my pain
my words. my sleep. my curse and no.. never have I tasted that sweet. the need for even your gaze or words. you're lazy tours. my blade is blessings. be warned."
I was there.
I lost sight of my own hand before my face as sinew and marrow spray made it hard to enjoy the local rugby match on the tube.
my team was up one, and the refs were obviously on the dole.
Poetry Bittersweet told me not to worry, my sins were meager. so inhale.followed. by exhale was not a problem.
for now.
© All Rights Reserved
A shambled blade made of something not many if one could describe left Dan Lake in need of hospice, as it made his body better prescribed as perforated. his bleed was salty and such.
"and the others who do, well, they wont." spoken Poetry Bittersweet. she was all of 5 feet 4 and a few milligrams past well fit. still a sight for sore eyes and with a way of words spoken or typed she made them hit. the right notes.
with a penchant for kill.
her next reason was always the last ones mistake, do better.
Poetry never rested, though she sat down this one time
and in occasional seasons waited for the best wind. a being paid to make some wayward types depart their existence, a heart made of resistance
a new way to be.
she was wild
or so they tried to say, only men however lonely who ever saw her smile said
"it was worth it."
Picture this bruv, unsettled bricks lined the outer wares of a house with no name. the street sign said run and there were ragged pups outside
the weather has a reason to be so hostile yet it yielded whenever certain names dropped by.
one bloke monikered Dishes Malone was in town and he spoke with a northern patwa. you know the type.
90 words a minute of mostly threats accompanied by 3 billion sweaty and all too thirsty followers or nothing except violence and cool motorized bikes.
left of the pub sat Poetry,
in the drink a familiar face got fortunate enough to make haste when then arrived. never settling his tab
the drinks were hot. heat.
poetry removed her stabby thing from the remains of a local thief and almost took a deep breath.
oxygen didn't taste the same. and nitrogen was for pussies. so..
as she
entered
some felt themselves withdrew.
drawing from past and the possibilities of insides becoming askew she stepped forward after the doors groaned romantic.
"I'm not.." one usurper claimed before his collar bone was exposed and taken away, used as a wrench to make his ribs give space.
"I am Poetry. bittersweet.. this is my pain
my words. my sleep. my curse and no.. never have I tasted that sweet. the need for even your gaze or words. you're lazy tours. my blade is blessings. be warned."
I was there.
I lost sight of my own hand before my face as sinew and marrow spray made it hard to enjoy the local rugby match on the tube.
my team was up one, and the refs were obviously on the dole.
Poetry Bittersweet told me not to worry, my sins were meager. so inhale.followed. by exhale was not a problem.
for now.
© All Rights Reserved
