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Body
Grotesque, this wench, self-loathing beast
Her hunger quenched, only released
By fantasies, perfection pined
This cursed disease, a lust so blind
Her organs fold, this body spent
To life she holds, barely content
These dagger bones, this sagging skin
Frostbitten tones, here, death begins
Here, death begins, frostbitten tones
This sagging skin, these dagger bones
Barely content, to life she holds
This body spent, her organs fold
A lust so blind, this cursed disease
Perfection pined, by fantasies
Only released, her hunger quenched
Self-loathing beast, grotesque, this wench
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Comments
Unfortunately I've fallen behind with my poetry over the last four years and I'm not able to really critique like I used to. But I can say I love it, flows nicely and feels right.
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"The great occupational hazard for an art critic or art historian is to let words come between the viewer and the experience of art - to substitute a verbal encounter for an aesthetic one." - Roger Kimball
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