Sep 22, 2020
1 min read
Bled Through
A Poem
Just because I was born
to this depression
doesn’t make me particularly
fond of this stain
Like a taint cutting through
every bite of food
this carries on and goes about
the daily torture
You’ll forgive me
I’m sure but then I don’t know
what that means either
Stuck in this wall
still peeping over it with the tips of my
dull knives every now and again
keeping track of an enemy
too damned good at camouflage
The sucks of the books…
