"chillings" poems
Your soft skin is tearing,
Your voice is cracking, trying to sing.
Your hands are shaking, cold chillings runs down your spine.
No escape,
No place to hide.
Inside, you're dying, fighting for the smallest sliver of hope.
You died in that cocoon, you never became a butterfly.
Knifes are ordinairy now, you know them all too well.
As they cut and damage your resolve, you suddenly know it and it occurs to you...
Death is coming for you, it talks, whispers even:
''Go back to sleep my child, you've sufferd enough...''
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
I tinkered and cobbled a box together
to place my love feelings
safe from the wheelings and dealings
of loves thrillings and chillings.
Yet still and because
the thing that love does
I handed said box
without any locks
with trust
into the hands of a young lass.
The spine turns cold
when woe to behold
I sighted my love- feelings box
tossed among the rocks
bobbing in the sea
among the flotsam and jetsam
and trash.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 7:21 PM UTC