"distructrable" poems
He's a machine,
An instrument of death.
Ready to take your last breathe.
Whoosh
His scythe glides.
His sword slides.
Bang
His gun roar.
A death of more.
Death is inevitable.
Life is distructrable.
One. Good. Hit.
You're in the pit.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC