(a) Is this poetry? No. This is my own personal epiphany. Decipher it if you will.
(b)
Hair
Is a lie
Because it pretends
To die when it is sabotaged by razor
And red-rusty scissor
Except no,
No.
It was never alive to begin with.
Fighting the injustices of bad writing since 1995.
Sylvia Plath?
So My Pen Bled Love Songs
My head sang the oldest tune it knew,
The kind that went "lonely, lonely, lonely",
But never sent to rest my fears
So my pen bled love songs
My feet walked the same steps like before
but they didn't dance like before
More like now when "lonely, lonely, lonely"
is met with lifeless eyes and leers
And they grew horns and tails, love.
The kind that went "lonely, lonely, lonely",
But never sent to rest my fears
So my pen bled love songs
My feet walked the same steps like before
but they didn't dance like before
More like now when "lonely, lonely, lonely"
is met with lifeless eyes and leers
And they grew horns and tails, love.
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