These broken things
on my back
Dont make good wings;
Just a heart attack.
Sorting through scrap metal
and tying knots
Hooking up wires
and watching them rot.
One after the other,
All in a line,
Calling them something;
Calling them mine.
Only to see them break
These carbon copied fakes
Falling like confetti
from the sky.
Its a lacklustre funeral,
seeing them die.
And a shock
to the system
When they realize
they cant fly.
















Comments
--
You know, I'm not half as exciting in person as I am when my identity is an icon.
--
"FINE. The idiot with the blood fetish can stay under ONE condition!"
"And that would be...?"
"No more eating the friggin' neighbors!"
----
Memeber of the zodiac club and UnseenArtists
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