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And it wasn’t nearly reality enough,
So I skimmed this water of bone
Hoping that the blood beneath
my fingers would only be temporary.
But you can’t promise on broken love,
Could you believe me when I say I’ve known.
Lie behind your cheap lips and teeth
Cross your heart and hope to die yet on the contrary.
Your empty threats of wishing to **** me,
But darling I’m already dead.
You can hope on deeds of darkness but not anymore,
It’s such a shame a poet must draw her scythe.
So take a deep breath dear, inhale slowly,
And don’t worry there’s nothing wrong with just a taste instead.
I can’t help but smile as the ashes flood the floor,
Such a beautiful way to die, letting a poet take your life.
Tonight she sleeps with the lions and like before,
Dark as it may be she laughs when one offers her light.
“I sleep with demons roaming my skin,”
“Beg your pardon I don’t need this pity.”
And the truth was not a sin, she really had to pay for.
A century of this and that really left without a fight.
I haven’t decided on which degree of hate I let out and in,
But tell you what I digress this country and this rotten city.
Mistake me for a witch, and how many friends will I lose?
I can hardly tell with all this nihility I now hold dear to me.
Keeping words on chains, imprison me why not.
A bucket of silver is all I hold in my eyes.
And keep the hounds in hell dear,
Just let me say you are quite lovely,
What can you teach me, what have you taught?
Beware of the silver in the bucket child...
Beware the poets eyes.
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Letters to myself,
are bittersweet &
deadly.
© Copywritted.