Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
Love is that wound that never properly heals
He had eyes colored
In tragedy.
When we talked about
Slitting our throats,
My adoration for him grew.
Before long
I had a new addiction.
He had a smile
Laced with power.
When we talked about
Changing the world,
It was usually with a
Smile upon our faces,
Daring us to dream.
I killed him with persistance.
He murdered me with ignorance.
We were buried under the water,
A slinky feeling rushes us to comatose.
In mere slow motions,
Death becomes our bodies and
Now when we pass each other,
We're bling to who we were.
Just in time to pick the scab,
The wound tells no story
As it festers from the
Infection of love.
May 15, 2007
Suge
In tragedy.
When we talked about
Slitting our throats,
My adoration for him grew.
Before long
I had a new addiction.
He had a smile
Laced with power.
When we talked about
Changing the world,
It was usually with a
Smile upon our faces,
Daring us to dream.
I killed him with persistance.
He murdered me with ignorance.
We were buried under the water,
A slinky feeling rushes us to comatose.
In mere slow motions,
Death becomes our bodies and
Now when we pass each other,
We're bling to who we were.
Just in time to pick the scab,
The wound tells no story
As it festers from the
Infection of love.
May 15, 2007
Suge
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Love is that wound that never properly heals
Love is that wound that never properly heals
