The likelihood between myself and a beast,
Surpasses my self-grotesque-depiction, at least.
I loath the day I entered this death spiral twirl;
In this vicious tornado-self-esteem-crawl.
Only one sweetest venom sip it takes,
To make me be a slave to the demonic taste.
Enslaved are my legs from knee below,
Enslaved are the thoughts that come too slow.
My body gets so numb that nothing scares my skin,
Capital sins do not feel so full of sin;
I crave to do what is forbidden still,
To speak the cruelest things I have an itching will.
The street light comes to me in rainbow colored streams,
I love the way my mind feels reality like dreams.
I am both wide awake and sound asleep;
I laugh at nothing and I truly weep;
With passion, my blood makes love to wine,
My neurons are crushed grapes on the body’s vine.
Copyright © Luminita Stoica