The vines grow inside my body,
up from the ground, into my thighs,
down from the sky into my eyes.
It overcomes into my mind
warping and wraping until I find
my heart turned violent
inside of my chest.
The only thing untouched in this mess.
The vine it spreads
it goes and it heads
curving down going around,
my lungs look like overgrown gates.
Closed for the winder, and closed from hate.
The vine it reaches,
for my inmost being ceases
the part of my know one cares
the part of me I dare not share.
Calm, Cool, Collected me.
The people who watch
they think i am a statue.
Letting this vine,
make crime,
in my life. I guess they're right,
I dont want to nor do I fight.
The vine sprouts
up from the ground,
my warped mind, can't seem to decide,
Does the vine belong?
or should I bring it down.