planet gliese 581c
They told me that we could survive
Somewhere else,
But the sky would not be blue,
But bloody,
And there would be no painted
Clouds to live for.
And the plants,
They would not be green and kind,
But black, in mourning.
I will not leave here.
Let me die with the rest of what
Was given up upon.
YOU ARE READING
songs we sang on sundays
Poetrya random collection of original poems by yours truly about love, depression, god, and all things teen angst. feel free to give critiques (kindly please). I haven't shared these with many people and I want to get better at this craft I love so dearly...
