Myth Of Word, Sword And His Eyes / Wordsmith?
We sat on the top of our blood and his petals.
I said: 'Have you ever seen a combination of skinny skin, hefty bones, or flesh metal? '
Like rusty anvil and austere hammer at the blacksmith,
You amuse: 'That I fused a muse, paper and pen, word and their shroud to a keen sword without myth.'
But I'm not your world, I'm just a word, fuze in your picturesque eyes;
Scribble, wriggle and wiggle in a nasty, naughty, mischievous way.
Praising with a script containing tone, sign, signifier, signified the verses
And set light to your bones, while paying your attention and intention as a curse.
And you know what, I want to be buried, in your divine winkers.
Like a lonely philosopher, that endeavour wintry in blister.
So don't doubt the past and future of my freaky fidelity.
Furthermore, never treat my sentences with a touch of sultry, sweaty, and salty blasphemy.
But baby, pardon my prickly Langue and Parole,
Cause I've come with: 'A pack of envious haters, their troll and his role,
Jealous menstruational bitches, hypocritical two-faced, disgusting overacting man,
Innocent copy cat thieves, and lots of wordless, speechless, cause I was your swordman.'
Friday, March 19, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: tragedy,Love,metaphor,Word,Poem