PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Behind every well off man there will always be a whore.
You can't blame lack of virtue on not answering the door.
But the windows betray you, a thin curtain can't hide.
The more that you're used up, the better the ride.

This is self loathing at it's finest.
Your lips make a target I can't miss.

When the words, they stutter.
You know you're meaning them.

You desire insatiability, and offer it in scores.
Good men could do so much, if it weren't for the whores.
It's a pleasure to admit, at least from where I sit.
That I make my skeletons dance, just to be rid of it.

This is glory at it's worst.
It's your sins that sell you.

When your lips, they tremble.
You know you're feeling it.

I can't recover the state of mind, to make me say those things.
I can't resend that information, even when truth stings.
I've got scores to settle, and places to travel.
My weary, rusted bones unravel.

And it was your place, and your time.
It was my thoughts, and my pride.

I can't just wipe that off my face.