Although it's just on a classmate's blog, I'm still happy to have my work appreciated!
I burn
Don’t worship
me.
I am
not beauty,
but a part of it.
My fire is
only a pimple
of the truth of
whatever holiness
it is you seek.
Golden streaks
of my orange mane,
endless and flexible
—art that fits in every
experience, yet ruins
photographs. I
shan’t be taken for
relived visuals,
you must live me firsthand.
I am the original
creation. He wanted
something that’d shine.
Then he wanted
souls to cherish it.
Souls to take it for granted.
The prophets weren’t wrong.
The end had come,
it’ll come again.
I’m Nostradamus’s
sticky wet
orgasm smeared
on the face
of modern society.
Wait for the second coming.
