She knew a boy who loved to draw.
He didn't use pencils, or paint.
He didn't draw on paper, or canvases.
His utensil was sharp.
His board was his body.
The color he used was crimson red.
He had a large gallery.
And sometimes it would fade.
So one day he took, her hand.
He dragged her away and showed her.
All of his drawings and regrets.
So she decided to take her arm.
Pull up her sleeve and speak.
"I draw too."
YOU ARE READING
Poems For The Lonely And Depressed
PoetryExactly what the title says, poems for the lonely and depressed. P.S. All of the poems written are by me unless I say so. [2018 Note] Revamp known as 'the lonely & the depressed', because everyone knows this kind of thing is chronic.
