If it doesn't bleed, it does not feel.

I cross my heart the way my legs never are, and hope to die.
I promise fate in sweet whiskey soaked whispers.
I fall face first into contradiction, and wipe my face on my sleeve.
I’m the punch line to a joke that I’m still telling.

But enough about me.

She is a presence without pretense,
a well that’s never run dry.
A girl on a suicide mission,
to a galaxy far far away.

Her name is of no consequence,
because definitions will be redefined.
As will faith, love and devotion,
mercy, torture and time.

How long must we stay here,
in this place that does not shift?
In this dying light of indifference,
with a soul it cannot lift?

To grow or to stagnate,
is that the question?

If it doesn't bleed, it does not feel.

Edibl3leper

New Haven, United States

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Artist's Description

poem No this is not about suicide, nor is it about wanting to die, it is about finding answers in a hopeless fact that you have to incorporate into your being and how to go about such a thing, in short lol

Artwork Comments

  • George Yesthal
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