Spit flies out of his mouth in ruthless rage
I cower before him, my eyes downcast
He rips another punch
My eyes turn to glass
When he sees my despise,
He falls to my side
A tear slips out of his eye
From above, I watch him
As he tricks them all into believing
I was in the wrong
Irony at its best
My abuser, the hero
k.g
YOU ARE READING
colorless
PoetryIn this instant, I see it all so clearly; while colors are such a vivid asset in his book of pictures, I have realized that the reason I do not fit in this title is because I am simply devoid of color. I am c o l o r l e s s. I am nothing but slathe...
