Love Stories
It's a bloody mess,
murder most kind,
the kind that does not kill.
Desires clawed within rib cages
or delved into tender marrows.
You get used to it, want it,
it keeps you alive
the way some poisonous medicine will.
Some love poetry
becomes the aromatic attar
of a perfect rose,
while others end in greasy stains
over wilting ego’s,
from a thousand miles away
both are worth it.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment