There’s a burning in her eyes,
High reaching lace like a poison choker,
Hands around a swan’s throat,
She’s the type who would ****** the world,
Then break its neck,
But even then, she still spits poetry every time she speaks,
Everyone has their curses,
She hides hers in the darkness.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
There’s a burning in her eyes,
High reaching lace like a poison choker,
Hands around a swan’s throat,
She’s the type who would ****** the world,
Then break its neck,
But even then, she still spits poetry every time she speaks,
Everyone has their curses,
She hides hers in the darkness.