As fingertips puncture skin to rake apart my stomach,
your nails slash harder with each piece of flesh that struggles out.
"It's only just a scratch." Removing all of the nausea.
From underneath the blood, your eyes shine deep into our deaths.
These stains smell like iron in a glass jar on the dresser.
I want to save this moment in the shrine of things we've made.
Veil the fucking weekend as a time to say, "It's over."
Heaven's in once severed smiles as memories dissolve.
I absolutly LOVED the beginning of this poem, I really felt the strenghth of your words, the ripping of my own flesh. You weren't just telling me these things in words, you were displaying them to me in this vivid imagery. I adored it. I really don't see the point in having the word "[censored]" in there though, the poem is beautiful and that takes from it. I know with your vocabulary you could come up with a word that means the exact same thing, but adds to the intensity of this poem.
wow this struck me as a deep, twisted piece talking about something you wouldn't understand unless you knew what was going on....
it's a dark piece, and gave me the mental image of a demon struggling out of the cocoon of a host body as the host is killed by it's 'birth'
morbid, but good
i also thought of it as a poetic story... it's different from what you normally post, but i like it! write on!
This was incredibly dark, I almost don't even want to call it dark, rather evil. The flow came out nicely, it didn't try to rhyme and was even in a story like form, so I don't think you really meant to write this as poetry, rather as a poetic story in writing form?