The skin be so worn, masocis
And tattered,
I wonder how you can call it delicate?
It's scratches,
It's bleeds,
It little forests yet to be,
No one would dare to,
How is it that everyone has soft,
It's it chemical?
Maybe we should give in to society,
It'll do more damage then good,
Drive'll insane.
As Winter draws on,
The skin breaks more so,
Lumps and bumps,
The forests stand so tall,
Layered upon layers are worn,
No one must know,
Otherwise they'll be consequences,
But for the suffered anyways,
No such thing to be natural,
Only natural in stupid.
You're stupid.
YOU ARE READING
Roses, Riddles, and Poetry
PoetryWhatever I'm feeling, I sometimes talk in the language of Riddles. To only I understand, what the meaning is behind each sentence. Will just update this whenever, only making this to express myself.
