There's a desk,
beneath my hands,
that's made of a fake,
yellowish wood.
I feel the scratches,
like gouges in a bleeding heart.
It oozes the dark charcoal of pencils held by lazy,
dead minds.
There's tags,
and other graffiti,
that cover the sides of my palms with graphite.
The smell of lead dances into my nose,
and I can taste death in my mouth.
It's the death of life,
of intelligence,
of future.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry 1.0 (Completed)
PoetryAll of these are poems that I've written, and they are sorted into the order that I wrote them, so if you feel some of them are amateur-ish or bad, read the newer ones, or even check out my newest work in Poetry 2.0 :)
