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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.
Copyright ©
joseph randall
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