I see the grey pathway of broken dreams.
Slandered hearts. Black walls.
Bloodstained handprints. Slippery floors.
Tears of those who gave up.
Who just couldn't fight.
They didn't die.
They live morbid lives behind lovely smiles.
Pretending everything is alright.
The odd ones. They crossed-out.
They were dreamers. So they were crossed out.
Never fit into the criteria of acceptable.
So cross them out.
They were wild. So cross them out.
Not meant to open their mouth. Just cross them out.
The way they walk.
The way they talk.
It's just not right.
Cross them out.
Catch them with their heads in the clouds.
Cross them out.
YOU ARE READING
Growing
PoetryA collection of cliche poems illustrating the struggles of a dramatic teenager accompanied by average photography.
