She was of the thorns.
She wasn't sharp.
She was her own kind laying.
A park full of flowers
Hers was picked.
So she pricked.
As blood she saw aligned.
Goose bumps fade down her spine.
As her flower soaked in water.
She can no longer grow.
She fears her cause of DEATH.
Until she takes her very last....
Breath.
YOU ARE READING
|°Simply Structure°|
PoetryPoetry has always completely held me together. It's kind like how you breathe oxygen. It's something I have to do. Poetry is something like oxygen to me. Without it I wouldn't survive. ~ remember love is a crime and I'll do the time for loving what'...
