I don't know why I let the hate seep down from my eyes like tears and they are stinging because what are words more than thorns on a rose that pierce the skin and make you bleed and make you weep; you are a weed in a garden full of blooming flowers, a bad piece of rotten piece of decayed leaf and stem. Be trampled on. Be pulled out. Your roots are the ones that never grow and never will and therefore you cannot be anchored to the soil; no homeground and no sanctuary.
Bugs crawling over your skin
like infested flies whose
tiny limbs carry the deathly
punctuation of a plague, a
fullstop to the long-drawn
sentence that now you find
is only filled with
(................................)
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