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Dipping still fingers into bloody wounds, drawing distant half-lifes of existence in scarlet furrows of pale skin. Lost in long walks on blue water and tears— a river of ripped scar tissue. Wandering silently on paths less traveled and raging against dying light.
Inside, we all just rage.
Poet strangers drinking pints together in dim, smoke-lit circles of truth. Opening the pain and beauty of the world to blind eyes and worthless ideals.
And yet, someone always forgives them.
They know not what they do.
Inside, we all just rage.
Poet strangers drinking pints together in dim, smoke-lit circles of truth. Opening the pain and beauty of the world to blind eyes and worthless ideals.
And yet, someone always forgives them.
They know not what they do.