Untitled

Untitled

Unfortunate passing of bliss and innocence
with the scars, we carry on our backs.
Becoming painful as only fresh wounds can,
in the stench filled waves, crashing against faces,
living on the bloody edges of constant disasters.

Creating black holes around feelings.
Only the world of blind, screaming.
Begging for a new beginning,
and an end to the old corroded pain,
sifting through the inequities of the human form.