The veins inside me,
That aren't quite right
They're the colour of ink,
Black as night.
My blood is spilled;
Onto the snow,
A curse to build,
A secret to know.
The forest is a graveyard,
Where the spirits sleep,
If you listen carefully,
You'll hear them weep.
But no one should ever,
Be born with this curse,
Had I said never,
I wouldn't be the first.
My blood is black,
As black as the night sky,
It runs through my veins,
And keeps me alive.
I am not perfect,
But perhaps I am,
In that ghostly way of mine,
I am white as a lamb.
GOOD EVENING! god, it's been such a long time since I wrote a poem. This one makes no sense whatsoever...but I hoped you liked it. :)
_dont_steal_my_food_
YOU ARE READING
Original Poems
PoetryPoems I write in my notebook. They aren't brilliant but they're not bad either, hope you like them. Sneak peek: "Blood dripping from a Rose, Is like seeing an angel cry, It's unholy, never to be seen, It's heart has bled dry." All original, no copy...
