I'll write this in blue
Because it's how I feel
And I can't help it

I'll write this in green
But I don't know what it means
I don't go outside

I'll write this in red
For everything I hadn't said
They've never really left my head

I'll write this in black
To forget all that I lack
And who I could of been

Wild children have been here
to throw glitter in the green,
in the sun it does shimmer
and glimmer and gleam.

While the dew does sparkle,
the birds babble on,
flitting and swooping
on rays of the sun.

Butterflies dance
between evergreen trees,
carried by birdsong
and the early spring breeze.

They flit and they float,
in the colour of honey,
the kind that is golden,
delicious and runny.

We are beggars asking for scraps,
                  but our words are unheard because we don't
                   collect forged notes that never mean much

But hollow forgery's.


I will only give those worth the reading my cents
                                                                ­           of truth.


Never false notes that seem worth on the outside.
                          But then you truly try to spend ,
knowing there merely worth less than the paper
                                                                ­        there wrote upon


Cant we read a wet piece of in for its worth.

                                          not for the forgery that

collects on the venom of who liked it before because they
                                       viewed you without even a constructive


comment...

                    What I misspelled that, hats off thanks for the

constructive comment, not the book of consequences,
                that flowed from a there, to a their?
                         yes my English is my first language,


but what I made a mistake but you want to witch hunt
                    my ****, burn me on the mistake of grammar.

what I misspelled that, ooow,
            I had a few beers but my muse kicked off,


and this is what I wrote, chill we ink. W elove what
          we do, a release, a channel of anger.

           For me its just my hobby, I like to ink what ever

falls from my finger sometimes I'm like  of the limit,

    but I still drive my words, even thought some swerve,



you understand where I'm coming from.

Your skin is only so deep
and can’t be cleaned beyond a centimeter
or so.

But arteries and veins run deep through thousands of miles.

And dialysis
of your bitter, liquid bits
will clean you nearly
beyond recognition.

the glass dome felt safe
the outside world
couldn't get in.
she could see
that outside world.
she never wanted it
until she noticed
the first crack in the dome.
she sat and watched.
after seeing more cracks,
she touched the dome.
the touches increased in force
until everyone heard
her sharp elbows
pounding on the glass.
she grew stronger
until, finally,
she broke the dome.
she's free now.

Mirrors

Mirrors  show my reflection,
but they never tell how I feel.
Smiles could send a warm signal,
but they hide the cold within.
Silence could seem peaceful,
but not when it's noisy inside.
It can be bright and shiny on the outside,
Although it's really dark within.
Never believe a reflection,
because it doesn't show what truly is.

https://scribblesindarkness.blogspot.com/