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Slices like its margarine, not stodgy like its butter They know we like it warmer, So they exploit us much colder I wish my limbs weren't wooden like fleeing a fierce dungeon, There's no oil in the engine If though, it would only spatter. The punishment, I wish not to reave wish not for belief. Silent sadness regret, a river of flowing trespass. I get eaten, every sun-day at mass.
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Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 10:28 AM UTC
black engine (revised)
Slices like its margarine, not stodgy like its butter They know we like it warmer, So they exploit us much colder I wish my limbs weren't wooden like fleeing a fierce dungeon, There's no oil in the engine If though, it would only spatter. The punishment, I wish not to reave wish not for belief. Silent sadness regret, a river of flowing trespass. I get eaten, every sun-day at mass.
By RGH.
#abuse#rhyme#dark
The-Poet-Formally-Known-As
Written by
The-Poet-Formally-Known-As
47/M/AUS
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 10:28 AM UTC
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