Gothic-Surrealism

Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Gothic Poets Poem

What's this paralysis within me?

I still don’t understand it.

 

Lack of courage, a voice,

only a hand to write my mind.

 

These thoughts... Oh these thoughts

ricochet within my skull.

 

Each a bullet tearing through a once sane mind,

now wounded with insanity.

 

The day I found it'd never be cured,

is the day my life ended.

 

A dead flower holding on by its withering root,

these legs are rotten but not to their core.

 

A solid stream of energy flows

through their center.

 

This is what keeps my hands and face

from hitting the mud.

 

When I sing with my mind, soul, hand and pen,

I stand upon two roots made of iron