|
Post by April on Jul 4, 2014 2:20:33 GMT -5
This poem is based on the concept of oppression...although this would probably be considered an extreme case.
The Roses are Black
The roses are black, The violets are dead, You wouldn't believe The thoughts in my head...
Like Autumn leaves fall, And grow brittle with time, So do the hopes, and dreams That were mine.
I grow so weary Of deamons I fight, They claw at my skull All day and all night.
They want to come out, They want to be free... They want to let all Of the air out of me.
They want me to rot, They want me to waste... Their bloodlust unruly, As my thoughts, they taste.
The roses are black, The violets are dead, I felt the crack... And my sanity bled...
|
|
|
Post by fullyconfuzed on Jul 6, 2014 23:56:50 GMT -5
Wow u are a very good writer... a true artist...keep em coming, love!!!
|
|
|
Post by April on Jul 7, 2014 12:29:15 GMT -5
Thank you so very much! <3
|
|
|
Post by Eric on Jul 24, 2014 18:22:21 GMT -5
I'm wondering what the inspiration was for this? Please say me!
|
|