My intent to caress
Made a mess of the thought
And I murdered my lines
Such a waste
Such a crime
Is it art? Does it rhyme?
No, the pulse has been stopped
Taking stabs at this…what?
This release?
This insult
I despise every word
My attempts, I repent
Feeling sick unto death
Nothing made
Nothing left
So I stab and I stab
Until life trickles out
And the art–it is dead
We are both
Fully bled
vampireweather 