Poetry is a disease
Words sit in your gut like rotten meat
You hold onto your stomach for dear life
'Cos it's full of knives
There's no choice but to stick your pen down your throat
And bring it all up
Yeah, poets can't tie knots
And they don't own a pistol
And all that venom just stifles and stinks
But you can close the book
And close your eyes
Ready to hate yourself tomorrow
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Dreaming of walking model thin
Unaware she's bones and skin
She lives in a damaged brain
Drowned from her vomiting pain
Her insecurity torn up her mind
Left her bulimic and mentally blind
Always hugging her toilet beside
Half dead from purging her soul inside
Crying because her ugly reflection
She won't give up until she's perfection
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
The stomach pain is horrendous
The taste of dessert coming back
The look of disaster
stab me, choke me, **** me
The disapproval upon the faces
The miserable sounds in the background
The insecurity peaking out
save me, help me, rescue me
The choke before the gag
The spit before the rest
The death in my stomach
take me, be me, please
The blood in my gums
The ache in my throat
It's over–
I'm alright again.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC