The gray clouds,
thick fog and mist
prepare the subconscious
for death's sweet kiss.
...
Your friends think you're perfect
but they haven't a clue
that only I know
what bullies do to you.
...
Red slits on my body
crimson drops roll down my arm
I lick the blood from the blade
its shiny red glint doth charm
...
I run that blade
it pierceth the skin.
I no longer
feel its bite.
...
Welcome to my Under World. Please leave your skin at the door. India Mysticali was born on Earth a long time ago. Things happened that led her to wish to write. This is all the information provided on this poet at this time. Thank you.)
The Man I Shot
Oh lord, oh dear
what have I done?
I've shot a man
with my own gun.
I waited patiently
with all my might
for some clue to his
position in the night
He shot me first
clear as a bell
but that's not all
of my story to tell
For then, oh dear,
I faked an act
and made it look
like my death was fact
And then I shot him
when he was unaware
and I wondered who it was
who'd fought me so fair
I turned over his corpse
What, then, did I see?
my dear, little brother
staring back at me.
hey ur poems are really deep; i like them! i know how u feel. kat