I drew a butterfly on my wrist,
In hope that this feeling would no longer persist.
But things got bad and I started to cry,
So the butterfly on my wrist, it had to die.
Once again I tried to set myself free,
But it seemed my thoughts had stolen the key.
So this butterfly lived a very short life,
Killed with fear and a very sharp knife.
~BG~
YOU ARE READING
Sad Poems
Poetrya variety of losses, regrets, and depression wrapped into a mess of a poem book started: 04.29.15 completed: 06.24.19 a book that has existed almost as long as I have on here. thank you for giving my story a chance (my apologies if some are really c...
