black runs down the walls
screaming echoes in the halls
abandoned asylum in a bog
lost ghosts
topsy turvy
creaking stairs yet no ones there
the ghosts of children running wild and free
YOU ARE READING
Short Book of Poetry
PoetryWhenever I'm upset, I write poetry. Whenever I'm stuck on something in a story, I write poetry. Whenever I fall in love, I write poetry. It's a way of life.
Eleventh Act
black runs down the walls
screaming echoes in the halls
abandoned asylum in a bog
lost ghosts
topsy turvy
creaking stairs yet no ones there
the ghosts of children running wild and free
