Is It Poetry - emo gurl

It is a radicalised reparation of my haunting,
burned out lie.
It is, it's drug it in you choose, it's lips are fostered,
is in to pules of the mirror, it is washed from, in
it's anticipation, compressed, is pulled, apart
from in blood.
No one will lend me you!) it anew shinny buff.
It digs out it's old, always new, it's rusty dull, is
jagged, ragged slice, it's pale hairless pie hole,
so thin, it's only it's greedy noise making
such a muscle, beardless
voiceless now, is it's wait.
The light is bright, the pie hole quivers, shakes on
it's love swept rocks, barren of hope, shallow is it's
depth wide is to deep, looking out within is a gush.
WAITING...
It stares into, within, it looks out inside it's hand trembles
down ward, again and again, this pole once of wood, now
it is once again my shame.
Across it, down it, like my tears, across a white barren
bluff of porcelain, it's now dry face of relief,
spent to lie on the ever jagged edge...the tip...
of it's day..washed in dark...dripps..of dropps..now red..
is again it's bed,
of hopelessness your love for me..it lays in, once again.

Is It Poetry

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