This heart, if like a flower provides fragrance to others
Then it also tramples the love for those and memories of those who ***** it with their thorns
As this heart isn't made of flowers.

©Spriha Kant

As I picked you up by the thorn, our love was bound for scarring. These ****** tattoo my skin, shades of black and grey--forever we are.

Prickly cactus pins,
flurried toward my skin.
sinking down on sheets of lies,
my epidermis falsified.

Cells of blood like moss-covered bricks,
pierced right through by cactus ******.
The places where it stings,
lie deeper than I’ve ever been into my own flesh and bones,
and my heart would never condone,
but tonight I let it bleed,
to know myself a little more.

These prickly cactus pins,
dotted all over my skin,
I dare not try ever again,
to hide the contours of my brain.

Reams of envelopes lie in wait,
to say a few words to my mates.
The lies – they saw, although much of it they forgot,
and some were never for them to understand,
but now cactus ****** have serrated my heart,
only and only the truth pours out,
as the tissues of life, are ripped apart.

There was once a wealthy man who was a *****
that loves to play games which are cruel and sick
he did that with impunity for
many years without thought of fear
until the "Me too" movement put him in the nick

The elusive redbug crawls in men's veins
In men alive and men just slain
A single needle draws it out
A *****, a drip, and then it sprouts