I am broken pieces and charred bones
And when my heart pumps out words I cannot contain, I bleed.
And like a spider I weave.
My words are not poison
But they are devoid of all promises
Promises that are ash and dust
Piled up somewhere neat...
Get that Neat, I'm occasional order,
Chanced upon chaos.
I am no Poet nor an Author.
My mind is not gifted,
Hence why... I can be Academically challenged by a 10 year old
And I'm twice their age
Though I try to ignore it all the same,
Hard truths fare better under the rug.
My fate is fucked,
Somewhere along the line my angels starved to death
Because I swallowed a briar garden whole.
My weak heart only knew one love,
And when the knife was plunged
That wound was left to fester.
And as the bards do say, I am the first in my bloodline
To be this deranged and discarded.
But damn me if I dare to die as an unknown whisper
I am a word weaver.
I'll scream until the sky gives out
Until the mountains cave in
I demand that you see me
For I do have a lot to say...
And... You may find me under the light of #bytheconwej if you want.
