Here I am, i'm alone,
forever more, i have no home-
If you cannot sleep, you'll never wake,
this air is fake, my lungs won't take.
Bleeding out in shades,
twelve different hues of red,
leaving spots on my ceiling, and blotching my bed-
I feel strange, but It's always the same,
a deadly decoration, pretty in pain.
YOU ARE READING
My Sweet Grave Digger
PoetryI use to have an anger so big, it could fill up any house. Poems from the garage attic.
