dinofruit23
New member
It's for class, and I want to get a little feed back before I turn it in.
Thanks
My mind is drawn to nothing else,
There are too many things that I miss.
A broken, rotting well of inspiration
Reminds me that I am wrong
Scent of tea as I sit
And watch the snow fall.
I believed I wouldn’t fall.
Bearing it alone, merely wished for something else,
Something more than a wooden box. It wouldn’t sit
This, chaotic, fucked reality. I wouldn’t mind to miss
Something that is so cruelly wrong.
Drawing from death, my inspiration.
With every written word, it scars - my inspiration,
From fingers frozen in mourning, you fall
Father. I’m doing wrong.
Under these numbers, its you I miss.
underneath this facade, there’s nothing else,
but an empty gourd that sits.
These sinister things sit,
Congealing, and barring my uplifting inspiration.
Defecating, mentally devastating, so I miss
The sunnier aspects of the day. The fall
Of her auburn hair across her lips, what else
Did I lose while I was away? Wrong,
Again remind me that I am wrong.
That I am alone as I sit,
Trying to find something to write of, something else
Than hate, and cruelty. An inspiration
That can make me feel alive. Fall
Colors, jasmine tea, or the lovely auburn Miss?
Can I ever again find these things I miss?
The way I was naïve, but happy. Is it wrong
To hope for the same feeling that I wouldn’t fall
Into another pile of crap and sit
There alone? Will I find a permanent inspiration?
That doesn’t plague my heart like all else?
There is nothing else, nothing more that I miss.
My broken well of inspiration (broken self. I am wronged.
Smell of nostalgia as I sit, and watch myself fall.
Thanks
My mind is drawn to nothing else,
There are too many things that I miss.
A broken, rotting well of inspiration
Reminds me that I am wrong
Scent of tea as I sit
And watch the snow fall.
I believed I wouldn’t fall.
Bearing it alone, merely wished for something else,
Something more than a wooden box. It wouldn’t sit
This, chaotic, fucked reality. I wouldn’t mind to miss
Something that is so cruelly wrong.
Drawing from death, my inspiration.
With every written word, it scars - my inspiration,
From fingers frozen in mourning, you fall
Father. I’m doing wrong.
Under these numbers, its you I miss.
underneath this facade, there’s nothing else,
but an empty gourd that sits.
These sinister things sit,
Congealing, and barring my uplifting inspiration.
Defecating, mentally devastating, so I miss
The sunnier aspects of the day. The fall
Of her auburn hair across her lips, what else
Did I lose while I was away? Wrong,
Again remind me that I am wrong.
That I am alone as I sit,
Trying to find something to write of, something else
Than hate, and cruelty. An inspiration
That can make me feel alive. Fall
Colors, jasmine tea, or the lovely auburn Miss?
Can I ever again find these things I miss?
The way I was naïve, but happy. Is it wrong
To hope for the same feeling that I wouldn’t fall
Into another pile of crap and sit
There alone? Will I find a permanent inspiration?
That doesn’t plague my heart like all else?
There is nothing else, nothing more that I miss.
My broken well of inspiration (broken self. I am wronged.
Smell of nostalgia as I sit, and watch myself fall.