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Writing some poems


scrmngfangrl
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nostalgia:

your not coming home, are you, back to the blood crusted linen, an broken glass, that drip with my broken love
you stay out later, avoiding my touch, i see me through your eyes, broken and ugly, taped to the wall
i see you, running from this place, from these troubles of yours, of ours, afraid to taste the sour of my lips
come, we can?t make things better, but we can ease the pain for the moment, entangle our selves together
lie and
die as
one
take me
and
brake
me again
the red roses lie crushed beneath your heavy black boots, and the trees bend over much to far, ready to come
crashing
down
take me
break me
turn my insides out
and the heart
this heart that
beats red
for you
the pain, i know your real, when you come around, the smell on your breath, it taste like whisky and burnt out cigarettes



Martyr:
I bleed for you
Watch the droplets
Slide down across
My flesh
As old wounds open clean
Open before
The dirt
And watch the flies
As they circle around
My head
Watch as the flesh
Is eaten clean
By the wolves
That ravage
My dreams
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