This is not poetry.
These are words of a kid stuck
In a basement.
This is not poetry.
My words have been tainted like polluted soil,
They have failed to paint on this canvas of mine.
With my emotions surfacing from the ocean bed,
They wash ashore with the waves
And dry up on the lonely sand.
This is not poetry.
In this eerie scented basement I am reminded why i left the garden full of 'I love you's' and 'I miss you's' ...
The angry monster nibbled pieces of you in the early hours of the morning.
This is not poetry.
The frosty wind creeps through the Windows,
And my shaking hand breaks the pencil that scribbles on this page.
My pain...
Slowly paints on this canvas of my mind and my depression is the cause of these migraines.
The beauty behind thy madness is blurry
And my hand remains half paralyzed.
This is not.....fuck it you get the point.
The kid from the basement : I did not write this from the bottom of a smiling heart or a bitter and soaring mind. I wrote this from a rented basement laying on a adulterated couch with nothing but a candlelight as lighting. I wrote this from an epiphany that I came in this world alone...people come and go...and at the end I'll be alone. I'm the weak bastard.... right?
Written by: the kid from the basement (me)
YOU ARE READING
THE MORNING AFTER
Poetry"My love for you runs so deep, It is hard for me to even sleep. Every time I see your eye, All I want to do is cry. When I touch your lovely skin, I get so nervous from within" a continuation of midnight thoughts my previous book if you haven't read...
