deepundergroundpoetry.com
Everything. Me. Strings.
I sit inside this awful room, crumbling walls, deranging calls. Your slimy words crawl under my cracking skin, lighting a fire, the loss of desire. I'm fighting this bountyless battle, called to war, bottom sore. I know I cannot win, this is evident, there is no lenience.
You tell me that you love me, to your mouth those words must be poison. Yet I cannot believe, can you blame me though, you spit those words at me. But I am unable to say no to you, my master, the one pulling the strings. So for you, you vicious queen, I am the one that bleeds.
Rushing in my veins, there is nothing red, the darkness you surround me, has been seeping in. I feel as though this black will never be through with me, I can never be rid of it. There is no cure for insanity, not the kind you've given me.
And as I say these things, I lay under you in a delicate mess. My strings are tangled, my tongue is crossed. I am already dead. Laying on the broken wings, my heart thumps in a place I do not care to hear. The only thing dead, was everything that made me, me.
You tell me that you love me, to your mouth those words must be poison. Yet I cannot believe, can you blame me though, you spit those words at me. But I am unable to say no to you, my master, the one pulling the strings. So for you, you vicious queen, I am the one that bleeds.
Rushing in my veins, there is nothing red, the darkness you surround me, has been seeping in. I feel as though this black will never be through with me, I can never be rid of it. There is no cure for insanity, not the kind you've given me.
And as I say these things, I lay under you in a delicate mess. My strings are tangled, my tongue is crossed. I am already dead. Laying on the broken wings, my heart thumps in a place I do not care to hear. The only thing dead, was everything that made me, me.
Published 11th Nov 2014
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