Her Face Drawn With My Sacrifices

Her Face Drawn With My Sacrifices

twistedstoryteller123's picture

Each time I take a breath, the rot of my mistakes consume me,

Broken sanity has never felt this tiresome, for I’ve felt it many times before,

The pictures, written in blood soaked lies, reminds me of Shakespeare,

How many times must I go back to truly feel alive? Succumb to her scars,

Talon shaped desires felt in broad strokes across my securities,

She finds what fuels me, leading me on like a piped piper of syndicated destruction,

Her voice, a reckless breath of purified promises, but will she come through?

The love is nothing more than Pestilence rotting me from the inside out,

Scavenge the pieces for her twisted, horror sanctuary where men die,

Is it truly worth it? The nomad beauty drawn in every man’s mistaken fantasies, a weathered rose of many thorns playing possum for the gullible, which wrote out my own initials.....

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skilight's picture

If I bleed, then life drains from me and no source from a soul would I be. For the passion to breathe is a substance to life, and the course flows through my viens. Shallow is a well that cease for non existance, to foe of my woo that I inhale to expel all the uncertainties of what want is. Desirable to undesire, a corspe to whither as time permits, as the crushing of the leaves.                      

 

Is it not, for the thought of the mind to hold in view what copulates the purpose of measure, to its time, a moment of treasure ? 

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