Posted: March 24, 2014 in Poetry


He really thought
She was it
Flavor of her fabric
Scent of her skin
Un-like everything else
His touch turned ash
When he was a kid
He was sure he/d die
Consumed by sinful
His affliction
This disease
He was possessed
Burn holes everywhere
Even burning his-self
To help prepare
Thought it/d stop
With the drugs
With the lies
But these holes
They kept appearing
Top layers of his skin
Even his brain
A mass of scar tissue
He knows there is
A pyromaniac
Out there God made
For only him
One that won/t run
When the house catches fire


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