PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My thoughts are rotted and my soul smells like sulfur. 
Violence has become habitual, spirituality has become vexatious. 
I'm a murder scene, the bright yellow on the caution tape. 
My brain , my heart , they still need to make the distinction that there in the same body.     
Emotions have a deficiency so I yoke them up and prostitute them to people. 
Long enough in an abyss and your suffering starts to suffer. 

Being beautiful, respect ? What's the point ?

I want to die with scars on my faces.
I want the broken bones, the bruises. 
I can't go out with this charming face, it isn't honest. 
I don't want to be a copy of a copy of a copy.
I can't control my shakes I shouldn't be enjoying this