Metaphors
My life was far from cloy
'til I was sixteen; just a boy
or something similar,
but poised and contorted.
Then I was twenty-one.
I kissed the barrel of a gun,
and for it sputtered
symphonies of feral noises.
Since, I've not spoken at all;
I framed my brains upon the wall,
and left my mouth moving
alone beneath the pillow.
Soon, I'm turning twenty-two,
November cold and midnight blue,
into a grave when my neck
snaps beneath the willow.
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