my life is a padded room;
I stare at the blank walls as I feel my restraining vest turn red slowly.
I wish I could hung paintings up in this mad room,
but I'm only left with the white silence and this freezing knife in my stomach.
(I don't really like this one, I've picturing it for months and I loved it, but writing it down it sucks. I'm going mad anyways and nobody is going to see this so it's cool😋🖐️).
YOU ARE READING
Trash of the Soul
Poetryversi liberi perché i sentimenti non si ordinano e foto di piccioni che vedo per la strada, solitamente morti.
