I see the writing on the wall,
It's a dirty fucking stall,
Filled with sick and twisted things,
Seen only in psychotic dreams.
Some turn away, some shed tears of horror,
Seeing the perverted little toy follow the
Master's every command.
Yet she stands,
And hangs her head in shame,
Waiting for an honest kiss.
Oh my god, this makes me sick!
So fucking sick!
About the Creator
Christina Sample
Artist of mixed mediums, write lyrics and poetry. Paint, draw, demonic dolls, and read tarot.
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A Digital Pandemic.
After a long day in the department, Emily dropped her worn and tired dark leather bag on the counter before navigating through the small and disordered kitchen to grab a cold beer from a contrarily empty fridge. She hadn't had a chance to unpack since moving from Newcastle to Glasgow, let alone shop for sustenance, except for cold brews naturally.
By Billie Whyte4 days ago in Chapters
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