Clumsy little thing struggling to stand,
Navy spots by his own hand.
He wants to look up, up to the sky,
Standing so tall, but too weak to fly.
Head swung round, driving him dizzy,
No one to lift him, always too busy.
Scorched and burned by the sun's shine,
Though his skin's violet, he says he's fine.
Spread much too tall, and much too thin,
He falls from the cold, breezing wind.
Blue Giraffe, once coloured of sand,
Navy spots by his own hand.
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A Random Collection of Poems
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, you'll find poetry about love, mental health, and existential questions. Who would be the last person you'd speak to? If you had a choice, would you rather drown or burn? How do people with mental struggles cope unheal...
