WriterSelbe Posted February 27, 2012 Posted February 27, 2012 She says she keeps a jar of appendages, the morbid girl, she does. When handling them she refuses —refuses wearing gloves. Her fingerprints she leaves upon them, the bony little things. Pain and suffering her satisfaction, only mourning can she bring. Analyzing, one will find she searches for something profound. However, for other greater things she can never be bound. She cries only to release a toxin. She is poison to the world. All real feeling she locks in, to punish herself, the sick girl. Her name is pathos, that we know. No other name you will find that suits the cruel mistress and her sick habit for lying. She keeps knives in her caverns, she says, to protect herself from god. He seeks her as a bride, she says, and her anger it seems he has sought. Her name is pathos, she won’t say, but we all know the truth. An individual with experience is able —quite able to see past her ruse. I am pathos, she cannot say, I am poison to the world. I cannot be your friend anymore, You poor sick sick girl.
WriterSelbe Posted March 2, 2012 Author Posted March 2, 2012 Haha, thanks. It was definitely a rage poem. I had a friend who was always lying. I just kept trying to cut it off, but it seems no matter how hard I try, I gravitate back to them.
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