As I pen down my millionth death wish, another mate laughs at what may; an acquaintance bites their tongue at the split thought of my funeral, just wondering if I'd be watching over their living. They don't call me ghost for no reason, I haunt strangers even in my wake.
(d.r.)
YOU ARE READING
Black & Poisonous
Poetry"She had 50 days left to live. She had 5000 words left to say." A compilation of 50-word poems by a child who longed to see a better future than the one they've set for themselves. Each piece takes 12 seconds to read. #833 - 27/05/17 #687 - 28/05...
