He wanted to write down
How he felt.
But the words never seemed to come out.
The paper stayed clean
Unlike his wrists.
Stained with red.
He pursed his lips
His pencil turned to metal
And licked it's lips
It's sharp tongue speaks creating bliss.
There words leaking false truth into
His porcelain skin.
And behind those dark emerald eyes.
The monsters are kept.
Eating him alive.
Bringing him closer
To seeing the light.
YOU ARE READING
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
PoetryAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
