Untitled Poem III

As I was emptying my pencil case (to fit it in my brand new bunch of awesome coloured pens), I found this crumpled paper at the bottom. It was a poem I wrote from God-knows-when. Here it is: 

Fresh blood trickled down her wrists,
dripping down in monotony.
Her parchment skin scarred and creased
as tears flowed down in synchrony  

A pity, really – the girl who was always smiling. 
She bled just to know she was alive;
she had rather feel pain than nothing,
as she stored all memories in archives.

I realize that the second stanza isn’t really good, (call me big headed) but I like the first stanza of this poem of mine and I’m pretty proud of it! 

Advertisements

Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s