In the depths of morning's golden hue,
I ingest yellow paint, a daily brew.
Cloaked in skins of conformity, I brew.
At night, shedding masks, truth spills red,
Lies pooling deep, where demons tread.
An unlovable sight, the darkness fed.
A swing of moods, a childhood's toy,
Stitched from mistakes, a patchwork ploy.
Silent screams, dreams lost to employ.
Not good, nor pretty, nor smart am I,
Chaos wrapped, seeking a lover's sigh.
A void yearning, beneath the sky.
Scars adorn these hands, battle scars,
Wars waged, secrets burnt like stars.
Closets hold ashes, uncared for, afar.
Games played, vices embraced, promises frail,
A soul seeks solace, amidst the gale.
Loved not for masks, but for the tale.
Not seeking fixing, for chaos is me,
Embrace the cracks, the darkness decree.
Love me, December's empty decree.
In darkness, as sunsets bleed their last,
Love my shadows, let them hold fast.
As cracked concretes, love the past.
YOU ARE READING
Those Things You Call A Poem
PoetryJust a collection of my in and out creativity. This is my rant area so warning, it's cringe, and emo, and just a mess.
