Wednesday 12 October 2011

Bleed

I cut off my nose with scissors
I had been in a face mask
The thought of suicide tender
But then there’d be people
To scrap me off
As I had enjoyed
A poem about my death
And they’d do it on my honor
With the hard kicks
Because I’d never reply
And they’d bury
To end

-

A classic, really.

Muerte

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