Death Blossoms

I do not know whether or not to say sorry

I just tend to fuck you up some more

Regardless of the shit I do to mend it

Like the effects of a 5.56 millimeter postwar

With variegated streaks of love and death

A rapid passional explosion of our claymore

My fingers intertwined with yours impatiently waiting

We accidentally opened a whole new door

PTS, or post-traumatic stress, is not a disorder

It is a proper reaction anyone would have

To simply picking up and jettisoning apples with no regard

In not trying to play in the sandbox and pretending to laugh

My skin burnt right off through white phosphorus

I just tend to turn it all to shit 

Infernos destroying silent in a blue room of tragedies

All because you, me, we concocted it

Death blossomed and we did not know

All I know that we fucked it up some more

And what is left to do is move on and grow

One casualty just left us fresh open sores

© Niklen 10/23/19