When did the clouds ever cry,
For the rain never sigh,
Ever so slightly the knife smiled,
Ripped skinned she's wild.
Pages bent and flew,
Books opened through,
Letters crying out blood,
Yet they still hope for good.
Reminiscing what she may not,
A pointed thorn has she got,
Cold shivers down her spine,
There she sat with her wine.
A drop of wine,
A drop of fine,
A take of breath,
A pool of death.
Do I ought to love better?
Do I ought to love better?
Eyes hath seen the heart,
Yet she still doesn't want to be apart.
Afore you open heart to some,
Must remember that all is numb,
Afore you gift love to one,
Must remember that you may gone.
So, Thou Shall Not Love.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Catharsis
PoetryHere are my pieces of poetry and literature (thanks for giving me an A*, Cambridge <3)
