I am the Unforgiven Child. My work is made up of the things I keep in my closet. The hidden pains, and anger.

Somewhere deep inside it writhes,
stripping flesh from bone,
I'm left here screaming silently,
I'll always be alone.

The fires of purgatory lick my skin,
like memories of you,
it seems the world has gone all false,
and all my answers true..

The Unforgiven Child's Works

Poetry (Reflective)	2006-01-26	Sickened
Poetry (Rage)	2006-01-26	Unforgiven

Share/Save This Poet