the ink bleeding
through my pen
comes from my
very own soul
and they write
about sadness.
the demons
under my bed
fear the monsters
inside my head
because they
begged me to write
them so they'll
never die when
i'm dead.
YOU ARE READING
four seasons
Poetryfor you, the sun shines. the flowers grow. the night comes. everything just glows. all rights reserved 2020 ©artoxicated
