deepundergroundpoetry.com

ill

 
What faked terror
Possesses a grown man
To slash the flesh of his
Upper arm
Whilst still a young boy?
 
What hells are diminished in slow breeding?
What pains disguised by a comfortable home
And a forgiving bosom?
 
A kind of blind terror hides behind those insevere eyes
 
 
Written by trysca
Published
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