TRIGGER WARNING : THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS AN INADVERTENT COMPOSITION AND CONTAINS IMAGERY THAT MAY BRING UP THE WRONG KIND OF MEMORIES. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
30 grey T-shirts,
scattered all over the floor,
One for every day and
One for every mask she wore.
Places left behind, only give her a new face,
Every morning, she'd burn a bridge, never retrace.
Why, though, sitting on a silent ledge somewhere,
The ground doesn't seem too far away.
Kisses and candlelight are a white lie, she says,
All her scars can chime their agreement,
Stories and ballgowns,
bottles and half-crown
Torn stockings and torture,
For the sick and the sadistic.
Arent what she was looking for,
But that's what she gets anyway.
30 grey T-shirts,
How does she even tell them apart.
When the good things drown in alcohol,
All she's got left are memories and scars.
Places to go to, words to be exchanged,
She carries them in a suitcase of flames.
Happy to burn the future if it keeps her wide awake.
The walls will dance for her, it's easy enough,
To say that she's okay,she's just had it rough.
Humans are selfish, they die to consume, she says,
It'll keep her running till the end of her days.
Punk rock and pennies worth
Of cigarettes and serenades.
Rooftops and castles in the
Sky and the next day,
She didn't think she'd love,
But that's what she got anyway.
30 grey T-shirts,
Hung up by the necks to dry.
Ghosts aren't always a bad thing,
They'll give company when she'll fly.
30 grey T-shirts,
Thrown away one by one.
It's not like their work is done,
But today is the first day she gets to go without one.
YOU ARE READING
At The Corner Of My Eye
PoetryMore poetry involving myself, my friends, my anime and my incredible addiction to the aforementioned 2. A few rants. My second compilation. To everyone who viewed voted and commented on my first work, A Left Brain, a MASSIVE HERCULEAN THANK YOU...
