What was that?
Pulling her hair, she smiled.
Don't look back.
Sitting here jaded; and cried.
Silent creeping,
It was a torture she endured.
Always hiding,
Laughing-hasn't been cured.
With her's a friend,
It was staying in her head.
There until then,
The moment she lay in bed.
So, what's wrong?
She's always been bewailing.
And that one song,
Every night, which she'll sing.
Then she weeps,
All of this excruciating pain.
And as she feels,
She's in an inescapable vain.
A morbid snicker,
With those screaming voices.
Wouldn't be better,
As those figments of her, rises.
YOU ARE READING
Her Lines Of Poetry
Poetrywords forming poems. fabricated feelings. stack paragraphs of familiar subjects. tip of my pen that releases ink to write those unwritten words. to wrap up the works. the tapping sound of my device that creates the words I have in mind. in too deep...
