Epithet

I'm on the edge, but not of glory

'Cause I tought it was all a metaphor

The pain writers so colourfully described in their work

That it all strikes like a metheor

I tought heartbrake was a line

Drawn across a shape

But it was blood

Hot, dripping, metallic

How could it all be art?

When is masacre

How could you not tear me apart?

When the silver blade rottens

Inside

Oh, muses, why did you not lie?

How I wish you were artists,

Clouds, brushes, words

You were scientists...

It is true...

The acke you feel in your stomach.

It does, in fact, hurt,

Truly, phisically, organic

Are there doctors

To stop mental haemorrhages

To sew my core

To tell my authopsy

No metaphors

No epithets

No art

True, gl(amorous), pain.

The pain is not like a dagger

It is a dagger

That were not buuterflies,

But my innards falling apart.

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Picture credit: MANDY via Pinterest