It creeps in slow
Flowing like used motor oil
Over the edge it drips
Globbing, pooling around my feet.
Flowing like used motor oil
Over the edge it drips
Globbing, pooling around my feet.
The dark puddles grow
Seeping through to the soil
I can see her lips
Dark. Blue like frozen meat
Seeping through to the soil
I can see her lips
Dark. Blue like frozen meat
What is this poem about?
ReplyDeleteNotes from the Author:
ReplyDeleteThank you for your question. In short this is about a murder. I was experimenting with my ability to write using dark, strange and uncomfortable subject matter. I really feel it's impotant, as a writer, to keep pushing the envelope. If I want to keep growing I need to be able to tap into the dark areas of my mind and not be afraid to tell other what I find there.