Poet soul

My poetry is

Pejorative

    Virulent

Saccharin
     
       Contradictory

           Illusive

Unorthodox

Sounds like a bunch of big words to me.

my poetry is in deep waters,
washed by an anxious day's sweat.
my words can be the leverage,
to beat my soul to death.
to speak into an empty room,
with no tounges tied cross,
is to vent airless gust's into a breathless womb
where life once tossed.
in the lead you can find yourself,
reborn with the lost.
between the lines you'll have paper,
when your screams build up moss.
breathe out your sorrows,
compose with me tonight.
dont dampen your past,
and end in undertones of blight.