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Guillotine
The only thing that I miss about heaviness is how easily it spins itself into beautifully woven sentence
My poetry was my crime and my pain was my repentance
I'd step up each day and lay my neck down on the guillotine
Just so I could write my rhymes in blood and coke and nicotine
Well I am starting to learn the beauty in being born
The beauty of being old and growing, being second-hand and worn
I fight against my captors now with kicks and screams and cries
The words written on the wooden planks, where my head will fall, no longer own my pen, page or eyes
Light as a feather comes with its cons, the same as stern, stiff boards
But I'll keep fighting to keep on writing and of the war in my mind, I will never grow bored
© beccabug
My poetry was my crime and my pain was my repentance
I'd step up each day and lay my neck down on the guillotine
Just so I could write my rhymes in blood and coke and nicotine
Well I am starting to learn the beauty in being born
The beauty of being old and growing, being second-hand and worn
I fight against my captors now with kicks and screams and cries
The words written on the wooden planks, where my head will fall, no longer own my pen, page or eyes
Light as a feather comes with its cons, the same as stern, stiff boards
But I'll keep fighting to keep on writing and of the war in my mind, I will never grow bored
© beccabug
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