It's there
On my wrist
Maybe it's paint
But paint doesn't taste like iron
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a Neurotic Insomniac
PoetryLet's see how this goes. It's time for this sleep-deprived, emotionally-unstable creature to write some shit down.
Red
It's there
On my wrist
Maybe it's paint
But paint doesn't taste like iron
