Culling the dead

Your lack of self-control is what makes you manageable. Some words if left unscathed will manage to cut to the bone You tried to mold me in ways that would turn me to stone. A solid with no emotion. that way I'm all ways alone. Another hopeless possibility A so called thawing of bones. A slit wrist who's blood pools into this riddle of poems I'm so out, I am a head That lives outside its box. I hear voices of strangers they live under my bed they wander around lifeless just culling the dead.