the wounds still fresh
from the day they took away ur wings
because you failed to protect the dead
and tried to play the dad
the heart that used to feel like a cup of hot chocolate
now freezed to death
the iron heart that used to shine brightly
was now covered in rust
your red threat on the pinky
replaced by ice cold cuffs
colored by droplets of blood
slowly dousing the heart
and your corpse feels dread
days, months along with years
with a white chalk marked
after hundred minutes and hours
of sitting in the dark
one day he managed to paint all the walls white
for the last time he thought about why things didn't go right
even after all this time being alive
why does it feel like a big fat lie
YOU ARE READING
tales of the mentally disordered
Poetry'it's cold, dark and lonely but it's home' . . . . . . A very random collection of poems
