I've painted my roses with red,
Blood from my head.
The lilies white,
From my terrors at night.
The orchids pink,
From my lemonade drink.
The poppies blue,
From the cold spring dew.
The daisies yellow,
From the asylum's caramello.
The stems green,
From the sun lit marine.
The soil brown,
From his rust-gold crown.
Then midnight comes, painting them black.
My work all gone, with only a knife in the back.
We're #219 in poetry! Yay!
YOU ARE READING
Dark Poetry
PoetryWar breaks out, Or so they shout. The odds of winning Are in doubt. We have no clue What the war is about, Yet we fight On and out. I'd like to get some stuff off of my chest. Some words I'd like to say. Some things I want to admit. All can be said...
