A loaded gun i call home resided in your already clenched jaws
When the bullets fire, they strike unbearable, heinous, dreadful
The swelling, agony and torment of the wound haunt
Like a longing evil entity, un unquenched thirst of a demon,
Possessing what remains of an already compromised frame of mind
Agonized by own mistaken torment.
I still cling to the haunting of utterance of destruction,
longing to hear soft whispers instead of screeching holler in my cursed ears.
Hope seems already to have escaped from Pandora\'s box
Like spider turning their fifth eye, hunting their pray.
But that pray is my will to continue this poem.
Shrinking every passing moment
Until the remains of a ghostly creature will wonder
Pretending to be viable through the already unendurable fate
She is bestowed upon surviving.
When my vitality stops emerging,
Like when the spider finished digesting their pray,
You are engorged in a disguised form of silk,
Thinking: oh, it\'s cozy- or: oh, it\'s quite comfortable
But then, you suddenly feel the rapture of your arteries,
Or the shredding of your heart\'s chambers
The tore of your spleen you were not even sure you had
And the formerly incomplete brain you always loathed.
But the soul - oh, the soul
So fragile that all the pieces scattered
With resentment similar to a drunken painting
Of ripped skin and scars, crushed by the very thing
That keeps me alive - love
A wounded love,
trampled by uncaring wrong.
A love as tender as a bullet wound.