Look at these scars
That run above my hand
They're just pieces of a puzzle
You'll never understand
Every drop of blood
That ever hit the floor
Has stained the carpet
Reminding me I'm not worth fighting for
Its easy to be an aesthetic
When I'm addicted to the pain
When all I have are busted lips
and a mind far from sane
The flowers that used to grow
Happy inside my head
Have lost all they're color
and have danced their way to dead
The light may shine so bright
and pretty on my face
Night time suits me better
For pretty is not the case
Yes it's easy to be an aesthetic
When you are addicted to the pain
When all you have is bad poetry
and carpet filled with stains
YOU ARE READING
Depression At Its Best
PoesíaThis is a book of poetry... honestly I can't really give a description for the fact that I write poetry based on what I'm going thru. Hopefully you like them and hopefully you can relate. Please please vote and comment♡♡♡
