open sore pulsing like the sun
the imagry is rotten
but the feeling
behind is not.
that much I can promise.
you don't write how I write
because you don't like
what I'm like.
not happy?
I taste myself on your tongue
you can't fake like I fake.
this has been penned in love
every stroke that moves my hand
the acid bright compulsion
keeps it twitching.














Comments
--
The Moon Hangs Like The Blade Of An Axe Tonight
Fr-ie-nd--s?
-Casie.
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