From poppies
Opium is born
Not dust,
Emerging from
Crushed dark seeds.
Subjective beauty
And a creative tinge.
She bites her lips,
A full-blown plastic Moon
Floating in an ocean
Of red feathers.
Opium is born
Not dust,
Emerging from
Crushed dark seeds.
They decorate
The crumbs
That feed the birds.
You take a bite,
Like them you fly
And you stop crying.
If you were crying.
You bite her lips
And catch a glimpse
Of your twisted soul
In the bathroom mirror.
And then you leave.
Subjective beauty
And a creative tinge.
Dust,
Emerging from
Crushed dark seeds.
Subjective thoughts,
Creative bite,
I saw a ghost.
That ghost
Was me.
Eeks. This is so dark. A chill ran down my spine reading this. There’s something very chilling yet fairly attractive to your poetry. Wow.
Here’s to new friendships.
:)) that was supposed to be ghost-like indeed. hope it wasn’t too chillin’ though, aren’t there good ghosts too? it was eerily loving actually. Cheers! wowing bck.
Eeks. This is so dark. A chill ran down my spine reading this. There’s something very chilling yet fairly attractive to your poetry. Wow.
Here’s to new friendships.
:)) that was supposed to be ghost-like indeed. hope it wasn’t too chillin’ though, aren’t there good ghosts too? it was eerily loving actually. Cheers! wowing bck.