Poetic Endeavours Are Not Meant To Cure Us. Part 2-Chaos Becomes Me Well
Emotionless wrist cutters scream in chaos.
I spit black horror in their stupid faces.
Sycophantic bastards burn in the flaming pits of hell.
But me I break spines and hearts in equal measure.
Brittle bones splinter in both directions.
A lack of brains paints me sombre.
If all of creation is against us, then why do we carry on existing.
Right-sided circles exude nothing but calm.
Whilst left handed doorways smash our faces in.
Copyright © Daniel Corcoran | Year Posted 2010
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