Pine-wood type of eerie sadness, a poem by littlemurderers
It's the woods this time of year,
With their nauseating green-blue tops,
Swaying in the winter morning gloom
That I'd sometimes like to forget.
But other times they pull me in,
Sucking me in their whirlpool of eerie silence.
And it's like I crave to get this type of sadness out of my head
But it's inked in my bones
It runs through my veins
And there're post-transfusion needle holes in my skin.
People have ben injecting this melancholy in me.
They have been writing nostalgia on my calves in transparent marker,
Waiting for me to see it.
And while I fail to notice,
It's already inked in my bones,
It already runs through my veins,
This pine-wood type of eerie sadness.
xxx, thank you for reading!! i'm turning 13 tomorrow, the preparations are underway, most likely won't be updating for a while. Either way, thank you for the 100 likes. I appreciate it.
