Draining colours;
These eyes are blood-shot red,
No need to use numbers,
To count all the tears I've shed.
My mind is in a meltdown;
Sharpening the nails on the wooden crate,
Buried alive six-feet underground,
If they search for me it'll be too late.
He took everything away,
Stealing probably all I got,
There's nothing I can do or say,
Because you've left me down here to rot.
YOU ARE READING
The Girl With The Gift
PoetryEmbark on a captivating journey, where every line becomes a gateway to a realm of emotions waiting to be discovered. Immerse yourself in the enchanting world of my poetry, where dreams soar beyond the limits of your imagination and hidden truths are...
