Five Second Slave

Thu, 11/19/2015 - 22:53 -- Dehausi

Whips. They’re flames of hatred about his body; cutting deep into the flesh and making him bleed.

 

Cords. Wrapped around his neck; wound tightly, softly, then tightly again. And it manipulates the speed of which he breathes- manipulates the way he walks; the way he speaks.

 

But never the way he thinks, and the things he believes.  

This poem is about: 
Our world

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