burndownmyhouse

My words are empty hollow bleatings of a mental crutch.
They're open festered indigestion, with a velvet touch.
A coma with a sweet aroma is my only dream.
Malignant from my misconceptions that my grunts can gleam.
My cholesterol ridden corpuscles are filthy to my fist;
infection is my finest flower, mildewed in the mist.