The pen; it has no use unless you put fourth the thoughts that come from within.
But these lines I draw seem way too thin; like the blanket I wore to cover
my frail skin.
But what does this line mean?
Its just as obscure as my undergoing spleen;
Its nothing like the grass full of youth, or the leaves that blow away along
with the wind.
why is this pen in my hand?
why does it write my end?
YOU ARE READING
My Poems (COMPLETED)
PoetryThis is just a series of poems that I write when I'm bored. Some are long, and some are short. Enjoy :)
