This ink on my skin
Doesn't come from my veins
Or my head
Or even my heart
This ink on my skin
Is the mark of others
When they came to break me
They thought color would help cover
So now I'm painted in a mess
Of brush strokes and pen lines
Because they all thought
They could cover me in color
But standing here for so long
Has caused the color to wither
It's starting to chip and peel away
My colors can't cover me anymore
YOU ARE READING
Whispers Of Our Soul
PoetryWords are the lifeline that connect my heart to the world. This is a collection of my 2am confessions and my 12pm ideas. Told from the viewpoint of my struggling mind, my broken heart, my wild soul, and my screaming mouth. "Distruggi quello che ti d...
