"Scratch.
She digged with her hans through the earth.
Scratch.
Until she saw the blood red colour of the sun going under.
Scratch.
The red of the roses that no one left on her grave.
Scratch.
More red.
Scratch.
Too much red.
Scratch.
But it didn't matter.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Because the colour of blood was way more beautiful than the grey of the never ending dirt could ever be."
- Anonymous
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryThis is not going to be a real story, I'm going to put in several poems. I won't write them all myself but I will give credit to the ones who have written them. If it's unknown I will just put that underneath. If you want to share poems with me you...
