Poetry is the soul of humanity and mine is laid bare for all to see.
I think I still love you.
That is what this pen wrote
On this page,
That is what the ink
From my soul left on the scalpel,
And here we are,
Standing on the precipice of blade,
And welts of lashes that dripped blood
like ripe fruit down the corners of hungry lips.
At what point did greed,
Turn into insanity,
And blinding narcissism?