Obsidian When the gore is on the canvas, White lights shine, but never to heaven. Living in crimson, All you do is cry. Corpses lying, but it ain't the apocalypse. Getting fucked over as a murderer, Is it such a joy? Masking a pierce, A jewel is shown through lunar shining eyes. Finding myself stuck still in motion, Suspended from the aptitude of my body. I'm not begging, Just screaming out my lungs. Organs flying everywhere, But that's just figurative. Screwing them over, And screwing ourselves. Sadistic sex, it is, Yet not a horror. The taste of the lipstick. Am I becoming a vampire? With this massive loving, Intensifying. I feel the blood rush through. Pulling out a knife, such floral eyes. Ironic when the flowers turn red. I assist you with the murder, No hesitation. Is it cannibalistic to have sex where the blood was? I can't get enough, you know that. And damn, it is so hard to resist when your body goes silk. December, You devil, I am here for you. Will we still kiss even when the snow turns obsidian?
Yet another fantastic poem. And like PoH said, it does have a distasteful emotion to it, but I think that was an amazing touch to it. My favorite line was: And there's not even very much else to say. Nice :3
