I turn my rage into poetry ,
Since I'd thrash people's hearts through my bleeding red words.
So they'd see how my pain is dripping all over ,
In Each and every alphabets.
The stinking words was dipped in my unending agony ,
Which was my same age.
I drank tea often ,
Which slipped through my fingertips,
And rested along with the words ,
Words of rage and agony.
VOUS LISEZ
Gravestones of survival.
Poésie~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
