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Title: Untitled


It's funny, this feeling. Compression, I'm reeling, laugh track and I'm bleeding yet smiling while pleading. 

My nerves have gone haywire, my mind is on fire, I'd tell you the truth but then... I'm a liar. 

I'd ask you to stop, but can I quit? Getting back on top won't stop this trip. 

I'm down on my knees and I'm begging you please, but what for? I'm your whore and I screw with such ease... 

Gimp with a lighter, today I'm a fighter, tomorrow a dead man or something much brighter. 

Now you're holding me down but not like you used to, crying and saying that I've abused you?

That look in your eye, mistress why? I swear I'd cry but then I'd die. 

Noble friends, brass, now distant murmurs of the past. Even the sun's beginning to look downcast. 

I sleep with a demon, a freak in the sheets, can't stop believing I'm wearing cleats. 

Mother is grieving and I don't know why, sister's deceiving dad by and by.

The whole world's gone haywire and I'm just sitting her, one foot in the fire and one hand on the beer. 

Got a cold and a fever, just want to be near her, but I can tell now that death's drawing nearer. 

Hazel and crimson encircle my mind, in this torturous prison there's no time to unwind. 

This torture... The eyes of a loved one, the mind a demon, but not like the one that I could believe in.

She'd hurt me, she'd kiss me, she'd show me no mercy, but it was a choice, and in that laid consistency. 

I choke on the misery, the pills I can't swallow, revel in the pity and wish for tomorrow; but I know... I cannot escape this sorrow.

And now it's tomorrow, yesterday was then, a new body I've borrowed, my pain feels like a sin. 

She caresses my cheek and lifts up my chin, but things look bleak, because I am dead within. 

My posture has fallen and cannot return, my blood has slowed and cannot churn. 

I flinch at her touch and she flinches at mine, it's all too much, what's happened this time?

A life in the grey, monotonous play, sacrilegious missionary, secretive orgy. 

I wish we could stop, but then, could we quit? Getting back on top would require a fit...



Note: Sorry I didn't title this poem, but I couldn't think of a name befitting it. Hope you liked it anyway. 

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