Baked Tragedy

It was a waste.
The mantel was too sharp
for the dying words.

Will not give a call.
I was angry with me.

Your skin wearing
on my hands,
O god I want to undo
my sins.

It hurts me,
whena praying mantis
keeps a watch.

I have defeated myself.

Very proud, an instinct
prepares me
for blue burns.
You will never know yourself.

A thick pain drips
from the swollen eyes.

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.