deepundergroundpoetry.com
Body of Words
What am I, if not poetry in motion?
Crushed by the tides of a frigid ocean.
The Sea of sorrow...internally rages...
spilling itself onto unwary pages.
My flesh is merely a fragile mask,
maintaining composure, is no easy task.
My blood runs cold, as cold as the dead,
yet seamlessly seeping, as the heart is bled.
My bones hold the task of sustaining this frame,
the burden they carry is too great to name.
My eyes hold flecks of long dead desires,
housing a notion that no longer inspires.
My heart, it so needlessly bleeds,
influencing hopes, that itself impedes.
My soul is consumed, by the sorrow I bare,
ensnared and entombed, writhing in despair.
My mind is so hopelessly adrift,
lost in a curse that may never lift.
This body has become merely a shell,
for the ghosts of regret to eternally dwell.
Crushed by the tides of a frigid ocean.
The Sea of sorrow...internally rages...
spilling itself onto unwary pages.
My flesh is merely a fragile mask,
maintaining composure, is no easy task.
My blood runs cold, as cold as the dead,
yet seamlessly seeping, as the heart is bled.
My bones hold the task of sustaining this frame,
the burden they carry is too great to name.
My eyes hold flecks of long dead desires,
housing a notion that no longer inspires.
My heart, it so needlessly bleeds,
influencing hopes, that itself impedes.
My soul is consumed, by the sorrow I bare,
ensnared and entombed, writhing in despair.
My mind is so hopelessly adrift,
lost in a curse that may never lift.
This body has become merely a shell,
for the ghosts of regret to eternally dwell.
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