The words,
They're coming back,
Its torturing,
They want me to die,
I wish I could say
That,
They're voices,
My mind has fabricated,
But..
I've heard these voices,
Memories fill my head
My mind is foggy
I look frantically
For my happiness,
I finally find it.
It's a brush..
But,
It has no paint yet.
I run the brush on the canvas,
Paint starts leaking out
The very much missed metallic smell
Of my blood,
That I call paint,
On my razor,
What I call my brush
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts, But Formal
PuisiFrom making your body a canvas, to.. I dont even know what, these are some poems I come up with on the spot.
