Is It Poetry
A Lesson In Vengenace - Poem by Is It Poetry
The kitchen is a drafty cell or draftier room except by the stove.
She has since then gone unfisted.
No obstruction unfisted when he dies she depends,
it is twisted
the miracle which is driven in and out.
Impressive each finger is like a sausage except at the end average.
Nothing like the club in my last life.
I open my hand, but with that kind of abuse the thumbscrew.
I scream as the vital force of froth rushes forth.
Close my eyes and say, God.
I am by she all in unconquered.
My small spire soaking until it poped.
You must wait your turn says she to they whom are next to die.
Her hand is the grindstone,
and soft flesh it grinds that rivet and the needle points.
Because of brine flavor of the four corners of heaven.
As to the scar where his himself red her white drains.
Come hither and see it is swallowed.
Don't you think?
Don't do it for him
if the girl it tears into that at midnight or a little bit before or past.
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