my damaged heart does not care now,
whether it is one of gold or
graphite
it's hurting itself every minute,
its walls firmly in place.
if you ever had to paint me a mystical canvas,
do paint me the colour of dirty blood,
because the colour love makes me puke.
it's so maddenly simple to figure out,
yet so painstakingly vicious to be a victim of,
red was never the colour of love,
for real.
it was always black,
drawing us in with its enticing haziness,
the labyrinth of its alluring charm.
but what we failed to see
was that blood turned rogue,
always turns black.
and here we are, doused in a bubbling liquid, on every lonely night that passes,
wondering if our hearts were too weak
or the love too sweet?
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YOU ARE READING
Look at me, Rain ✔️
Poetry《𝗕𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝟭 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 ~ 𝗥𝗮𝗶𝗻'𝘀 𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘆 ~ 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀》 ❁ // 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑔𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 // ~ Poetry Compilation. ❁ Cover by ;...
