I remember,
the house at the end of the street
painted in love with shedding skin
where those with no face but know identities lay waste
between and beneath red brick walls
unheard and un-breached they roam an envious domain
blackened hearts held by calloused hands
hollow souls hide behind stone mask
the bright sun overcast with dark shadows
domestic isolation in a group of nine
wasted tears descend upon reflective ground
biting down on helpful palms
while the sky cries to set the mood
YOU ARE READING
suicide
PoetryYou bullied me.... now we're both the same. I don't know why you did it. I don't know what I did to you, but I guess it doesn't matter now since I'm dead. And since you're here with me I can only assume that you're dead too. So now we can spend an e...
