deepundergroundpoetry.com

land o' leeches, tub o' lard

Bruised fruit bears bitter wine,
drunk off the fumes and doing just fine,
a skeleton suit in the way back,
closet space for all the humor you lack,
a bug's burp of fever sets the soundtrack,
as blind eyes see a bright light illuminating
places far from tight, in pincushion skin
dauntingly translucent and thin.
Written by mantisdeer (Cait)
Published
Author's Note
Oh, the grey death, oh how it pulls..
Oh how weary the governing old heads make me, so detached from logic, and NEVER biracial. So stuck inside dogmatic thoughts of neverending misogyny, a hole to dwell, so damp with hatred.
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