Ink bleeds
like the scrapes on my knees
but ink has an importance
unlike the fall I just had.
It's almost sad
how I'm not a child
but I can't stop acting like one
even though I try really, really hard
to stop crying over insignificant things.
Everything seems to come out wrong to me
I get offended by everything
I have a reason sometimes
but I'm mostly just a bitch
I think.
I reckon the ink has dried by now
but for some reason my knees are still bleeding
I might need stitches
or meds,
because they're no longer bleeding
or hurt
and are now covered in ink
that isn't actually there.
YOU ARE READING
poetry
Şiirpoetry is when an emotion has found its thought, and the thought has found words -robert frost. all poems are mine unless stated otherwise. just thought i'd give someone a taste of my mind. #4 in ode
