deepundergroundpoetry.com

rid of you

I still bite my nails
in the weekly news
you rustle
the newspapers’ spiralling speed
those eyes, insatiable, fixed
to accuse
unimpressed
while watching exalted souls bleed

moan over indentions
with so little air
thrown open
disparaged
and sentenced by greed
a mere extension
you - puppets
I dare
to share
my headache evolving to need.
Written by cableheart (Mister Rotten)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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