Okay, so . .


Certified Shitlord
Merc is a bit buzzed right now and thinks that writing a few poems here would be a good idea.

If they only knew
the statue who
drew from within the stone
of icy, hollowed lungs of mine
where whispers died
and secrets flew
up the pipes and to the lips
where her taste has not left yet
a bit like sugar
a lot like whiskey
those lips told lies and painted beauty
and told me why
they could not know me
and now the heart sits still
in its bloody chasm
where hope once lived
but she moved on
to other things
and different people
fuck her
hope's a bitch


Certified Shitlord
I'm just going to silently laugh to myself . . .

(for those of you that don't know, my old name was Riddick, so yes, this is my poem)