Phonographic Walls
My walls look like a phonograph,
The words on my walls flow threw.
I look to the sky, my body naked,
weeping of the pain that I have endured.
My wings are not angel wings,
I have no halo above my head.
But instead I have devilish fairy wings.
They hold me down like bricks chained to my ankles.
My walls are like a phonograph,
They tell my story.
But if you listen real close,
You can hear me being torn apart one feather at a time.
Eventually I will bleed to death,
And all you will hear is the silence threw the phonograph.
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