Is It Poetry
Being Milked I Did Not Die
Unbeknownst they came to each of us in turn.
They sped this process up and came at night.
The lips the hands were never meant to be on us.
Pulling sucking up and gulping down,
pulp fiction blew white foam across the sea.
Endless faces set the pace they came and went.
Deep in the woods where bushes did not grow.
Up from there the pain my belly inside knew.
Even now they await for more than two.
In respect of more than this, are boys and girls.
They tried every way to drain, their thirst to slate.
Up until and right before I did I never would.
The appetite of those I stood before.
Being milked I did not die all though like her I cried.
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