.
.
.
I have a desire that can ignite a fire into a blaze of poetical flames.
It's not the lines or the rhymes that has my attention
nor is it the paper on the table or the pens position.
It's a hunger that I have inside.
I'm not proud to admit
That I have a need for it
My soul maybe strong,
but my flesh is weak.
I need
I want
I desire
FRESH MEAT!
And right now nothing else will do.
I want to hunt it,
capture it,
and kill it, too.
I can see...
ink stains on my hands,
ink blots on my pants,
tears of blood trail down my face,
and in my mouth there's a taste....like flesh baby!
I sense another poet lurking in the woods...
got talent, writing ability good...
gotta a style that's unique
I'm ready to pounce...
FRESH MEAT!
Here comes the ink...
ink stains on my hands,
ink blots on my pants
another poet down...met his fate,
and in my mouth, there's a taste...like flesh baby!
~Flowriter
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