Every time I turn my head,
I feel the same faint tickle just above my hairline.
There lies 8 raised bumps,inked black.
They are my burden.
They are as if a car leaked black,sticky oil over the nape of my neck.
They remind me of what happened on that fateful day.
My mother's pale,winter skin grasping me tightly to her body.
"I love you" she hummed into my small ear.
As she walks away I see her brown, sorrowful eyes fill up my soul.
But today as I hold the stiff black pistol against my temple I remember what they told me to do. I have the lucky number.
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Poems,a Collection
PoesíaThese are self written poems. I finally decided to share them with people, hope you like them!Enjoy! DISCRETION!! Some of these poems are sad and likely to be somewhat depressing, on that note ENJOY! !
