deepundergroundpoetry.com
I want to be the new Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Instead of cutting my wrists,
I'd like to write a poem.
A poem so alluring and divine yet so real and intense.
I want the reader to feel my pain. To feel like it happened to them, too.
But I can't get all the feelings out. They're stuck to my insides, refusing to leave. So I cut exits into my wrists. I hope that they'll leave once they're ready.
I'd like to write a poem.
A poem so alluring and divine yet so real and intense.
I want the reader to feel my pain. To feel like it happened to them, too.
But I can't get all the feelings out. They're stuck to my insides, refusing to leave. So I cut exits into my wrists. I hope that they'll leave once they're ready.
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