Mol

The precious english language

Words,

a continuous scrawl of ink,

over my ruined mind.

The voices than tell me,

things no being should ever hear.

They used to belong in other's mouths,

but now in my own.

 

Thick skin,

isn't a thing.

But bitterness is,

and hatred too,

that spills out towards my mirror image,

at the lies behind my eyes,

the place where the truth dies.

 



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