insidious sparkles of detrimental moments of trial
we arrange the rearrange of our laments
to find ourselves complacents
like the dead petal from a dirt rose
like a petal that finds peace in a concrete
dead like these beauty lines, dead like these irrational rhymes
give me one more dose
of the oldest tears that I commited to hide and fail to keep
this singular promise that I promise that won’t found a purpose
isn’t so pretty like that rose
but it’s all that I have to give and you just spit in it
spit, stomp, rip, give, chop, slain, scream!
This is the oddity of the beauty
lines that don’t give a chance to breath
like this hands around my neck
it’s me or it’s your hands? What’s gonna be?
Suicide or homicide?
Deny, Deny, and begin to cry
looks like the rose finally will find
something rotten to fed her post life