The dead heart a common no one flings across the room
Full of a crowd it was, so what else would they do?…
Its nasty splatter of runny blood and tale of the journey
I wonder why I’m here for this, but I am poorly fed
How they waste me
Like picky eaters and their crust-less bread
This time I will be thorough
Any possible uproar will first have its locked door
Take that hint; I won’t have a note to slip
It’s far too real once congealed blood breaks the fast
And sunlight’s ever reaching tongues can taste at last
It would not think to refuse, there is no going back
With no one coming after me and nothing more to add
You will never witness the scenes between yes, no and might
But it’s time you take heed.
Stop believing I won’t try.
The painting is a random idea I had to draw a whispering voice. The background section represents an ear and the way the voices seem to always be there saying what they say. And the poem below it says nothing new except in a slightly different way I guess. I worked on it for a while, let it sit for a few weeks then finished it finally.