Rarely write Poetry,
In Sorrow.
Despair pinned to my skin,
Like entomology displays.
Fighting myself.
Every.
Single.
Day.
3 pills each morning –
Just to know of Joy.
[Numb.
Wanting for escape.
Worshipping Death.]
Never wanted any of this.
Blood Cursed.
Strange.
&:
This melancholy grief,
Remains.
**
