Hell is not fire, nor brimstone,
It is not of devils and sin.
Hell is far more personal,
Too raw and real within.
Hell is a prison for tortured souls,
Constructed of flesh and of bone.
Hell is dark and deep,
The only place you're ever truly alone.
Hell is where your demons dance,
Along a wicked line.
Hell is where your agony,
Hides behind the words "I'm fine."
In your eyes, I see a contrast of hues that paint the windows of your soul like stained glass paints the inner walls of a church in the early rays of morning - a kaleidoscope of heavenly light.
A poem for my love. Your eyes captivate my heart in ways I can only hope this poem conveys.
Stitched into this sac of skin at birth.
That fused to your bones
Fabricating a narcotic seamless facade
We pluck at the seams, with crude claws.
Laboring to unravel the lace seams
Whirling, flickering, suffocating nausea aimed at
Misuse of our pronouns of
Our echoing repulsive abnormal figure.
Funding a doctor to shed our skin.
Mutilating skin and bone to perfection.
— The End —