It's the night before an exam,
And the rhymes and rhythms,
are screaming in my head,
as the mountain of rejected paper,
grows around me.
Because as I try to voice,
my horrors and hatreds,
my love and life,
politically and emotionally,
all I can think about is that,
at thirteen I was scrawling,
pretty patterns across my skin,
and using my blood as the paint,
how messed up is that?
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 8:16 AM UTC
It's the night before an exam,
And the rhymes and rhythms,
are screaming in my head,
as the mountain of rejected paper,
grows around me.
Because as I try to voice,
my horrors and hatreds,
my love and life,
politically and emotionally,
all I can think about is that,
at thirteen I was scrawling,
pretty patterns across my skin,
and using my blood as the paint,
how messed up is that?
I honestly gave up on trying to rhyme anything after the first hour of trying to voice my feelings