Ooteca/florianconrad

a poem to condemn

I'm happy due to the fact that I realized,
That all the baggage of the experience, the moments of it,
Like a sack full of cockroach eggs.

And I feel like he's just cracking, and the murders are getting out...
flowers. Self-propelled, with maxillanic (imaginative)
They're mutilating, ho ho!).
In all directions.

I cry, the voice is multiplied.
echo does not stick, void
He has no intention of taking prisoners.

The screams almost creep in an icy room.
As if I were nothing fancy,
But to this extent, to dissipate inside,
To feel like a skeleton lying in a grave
rope (means: lower, lower)?

I'm far from any swindler, though.
I didn't think so! specified devices
To keep it inside? It's hilarious!