Bright streaks of smeared reds,
Speaking of trust abused.
Mangled bodies, defiled beds...
I've been used, used, USED.
Black and blue and violet.
pretty coloured bruises..
speaking of violent nights
spent indulging your vile muses..
Red stained white,
i remember ur room.
I remember my tears,
the depression, the gloom!
The black sheep.
i am now the shame
of my family, an embarassment--
"'twas his fault!!", ALL THE SAME.
Speak up child, speak up.
Before its too late..
before the pinks and reds of ur life,
become the crimson blood of hate..
before ur blood becomes blue...and flows
NO mOre.
o one thing..i knw the ending didnt come out too well....but...we cant each be perfect :) ....
You write poetry to music; I can feel a rhythm as I read it.
ReplyDeleteYou were right about the incomplete ending in my opinion; but a very good one all the same.