They hold my spirit still
Forcing me to stare
At my own corpse
Clutching all innocence which was left
Sharing my soul
Offering it to the devil
They possess me
Forcing me to watch as they tear apart my skin
Knives and blades slicing in
The pain in my chest is a burden I endure
Delving into a Feeling which shall be no more
As my body becomes a facade
Which they pull and rip apart
I realize
This type of love is an art
A.M.
-
Author:
Alyssa Morgan (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 27th, 2017 13:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 31
Offline)
Comments1
Your poem is quite graphic, but it fits. Your writing is well thought out, fluid, building up to a surprise ending: "This type of love is an art". It made me wonder, who is "They"?
"They" are the people which allow you to believe they love you when in fact they're ripping you apart as you fall in love with them.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.