Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
What is that of this, I will ask from the question which sleeps on the twisted lip. The probity suffers, when you burn your white paper. Why did not you write your name? The cortex invades medulla. Your kidneys falter. The sense and price become one. A **** opend the pride. The curves, the slants will ask you to become the flic, but you become a god, accept the knife's version and bleed to death.
0
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
With Dignity
What is that of this, I will ask from the question which sleeps on the twisted lip. The probity suffers, when you burn your white paper. Why did not you write your name? The cortex invades medulla. Your kidneys falter. The sense and price become one. A **** opend the pride. The curves, the slants will ask you to become the flic, but you become a god, accept the knife's version and bleed to death.
Written by
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem