Maize in the mouth of a dead child.This tree no longer grows,Maize in the mouth of a dead child. by PonderHope
its disease whittled
to the ground.
Its roots and structure, stillborn and
it must not hear any sounds.
To the sun
and a heat of bitter graves,
still this architecture stands,
its soul in bitter hands,
and time sinks beneath the waves.
It's been here since my birth,
UntitledPicture this: A dark room filled with butterflies and a plethora of dead girls on the floor. The girls are wearing dresses with flowers on them and have long brown hair. Soon, the girls disappear and we are left with nothing but silence and butterflies. The only thing that exists are silence, butterflies, and painful memories.Untitled by PonderHope
Two people then walk into the room. The first is a girl dressed in all black with long brown hair and eyes like a playful vulture. She walks in with a man, one who is tall with perfectly dead coelacanth eyes and a sense of self confidence unlike my own. They start making love and I pull out a revolver and aim it at my head. Soon they stop and then burst into flames, the revolver still aimed at my right hemisphere. The butterflies dance and flutter about as they form a whirlpool-like form around my body.
All I can think about now is how beautiful it feels to not exist, or no, how beautiful it feels to know that you don't exist. YOU don't exist. A portal open
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