There is a lovely country,
full of great elms and velvet meadows.
But the places I can see
skulk behind that conspicuous front design.
It is a little lovely lie, it
dwells in my mind,
nailed down in the corner
where it has not been touched.
It is bloated delirium,
waddling on waves of optic horror.
The lie,
comfort, that blessed escape
won’t go away.
I beg my own mind,
it is a false and foolish fancy.
But it is like a fungus,
a budding and sprouting peculiarity.
It is a very bad habit
that cultivates deceit,
I wake up and find it hanging over me.
- V.B.B.
About the Creator
V. B. B
I'm a pessimistic amateur poet and writer that has had a few violent and dark things published. Also, I love to make lists of my favourite movies, t.v. shows, books, and music.
Tortured Soul
The soul careened blindly through a void where it scraped against the walls of a narrow tunnel, amassing a cumulative friction that created all the heat the devil would ever need to torment it. There was no light at the end, not even a fire. From the bottom a cold wind blew, and the clash of extremities spawned vapors of terror in the deadened and numbed appendage that was this strange, delirious, drunken consciousness.
By C. Rommial Butler6 days ago in Fiction
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