A filter of fear,
Whose ending nears,
A blood soaked bandit.
His blood did not spill,
He holds close but not still,
The one who holds stares, not back.
Razor sharp words,
Sharpened by his flinted tongue,
Is tracked to the wounds.
These are my words,
Do not worry about them,
Because my words are neither sharp nor smart,
My words are blunt and heavy,
Which is worst because,
It can crush.

Taylor’s Writing Fund

This is just a small donation page to me, I do not make much money and this would help subsidize the time I take to make these poems. To anyone who donates, thank you so much and you have made an undeserving writer feel amazing.

$1.00

 

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