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septemberPoems
For long, I've had a pen And at the beginning of that time: I used to write fantasy, With set syllable and rhyme. I gave it to the public, And they gave it back to me. Told me it was bland, Somehow, I could agree. And then I changed it to First person— Wrote about my troubles Gave up on punctuation And that ******* filter. To write about my fight with needles, A cyclic session of depression and regression, Is release. I am, the butcher who chopped apart her soul Drained blood into words. Ground the bones into a bag and Fed it to the birds I won't dwell upon the rhyme scheme Chime whenever the hell I want. I hid my words in shadows Did not care for The world's gaze And suddenly I found myself— Showered with honest praise.
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Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
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For long, I've had a pen And at the beginning of that time: I used to write fantasy, With set syllable and rhyme. I gave it to the public, And they gave it back to me. Told me it was bland, Somehow, I could agree. And then I changed it to First person— Wrote about my troubles Gave up on punctuation And that ******* filter. To write about my fight with needles, A cyclic session of depression and regression, Is release. I am, the butcher who chopped apart her soul Drained blood into words. Ground the bones into a bag and Fed it to the birds I won't dwell upon the rhyme scheme Chime whenever the hell I want. I hid my words in shadows Did not care for The world's gaze And suddenly I found myself— Showered with honest praise.
september
Written by
september
Canadian
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
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