He walks with a ghostly gait
He's a deep purple poltergeist
His intrusion should be a sin
But it's something that can't be foreseen.
For a ghost he still leaves renderings that are an eyesore
He totally demolishes the hope that was there before.
He's callous
And makes them conscious
Of everything that comes in blue
The one hue
Associated with sorrow.
He makes a poet's ink flow
And ensures whatever their paintbrushes render
Is a delineation of their surrender
To his unyielding clutches
As their ink blotches
Lack hopeful light rays:
He only comes on bad days
He commits mournful mental slays
And births tsunamis that engulf peaceful thinking bays.
A/N: Depression
Wow, guys, like, wow, I just wanna say thank you so much, I can't believe this book made it to a thousand reads... I'm really grateful ❤️
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Writer's Whispers
PoetryIt's only at night that you hear the faint whispers of the writer's pen trailing paper. [COMPLETED]
