Rotten

My soul is rotten,
Rats could smell the stench,
From across the streets
Near the flowered river bed.

Dead inside no longer,
than the corpse months old
Opened wide by a scalpel
Forced by duty and justice.

I hate with a lion's rage,
From the envelop to the letter,
From the crust to the filling,
From the hair to the toe nails,
Passing the trips of wine,
Passing the pomps of blood,
Passing all into a toilet,
Never to return.

I despise which I do,
Which I touch wieders,
Which I long break,
Which I love crush.
Like a dove origami
in a babies fingers,
Drooling and screaming,
Because it would give.

Every mirror is a torture,
Salt on my unfleshed self,
Naked to my abandonment
A vine filled entrance,
Nailed wooden shutters,
cracking slots and barbs,
termites eaten floors.

Every breath frost bittes
a nails filled balloon
That my chest rises
As hollow as this tune.

I were better dead,
Past from this bed,
As I wake in the morning,
As I lay in the evening again,
I were rather dead,
Past from this bed.

You'd be better off,
Without the fumes from
My putrid flesh,
That sombers your shiny days.
You'd be better off,
If I passed from this bed.

Frost bitte

My heart is frozen,

My heart is frozen, 

It must be from the cold. 

My soul is rotten, 

My soul is rotten, 

Smells putrid and foul.

My eyes are glassy, 

My eyes are glassy, 

Can't even see time. 

My throat is coarse, 

My throat is coarse, 

From screaming at life. 

And you ask me, 

You ask me again, 

If I am alright?

And I tell you, 

Tell you once more, 

Peachy and dandy.