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Literature Text
Those pages full of pencilled left in dirt.
Hours chained by sick love that makes me hurt.
It beacons to me whenever I look.
And I obey; reeled in by its hook.
Each pencil line rubbed off dirty dark lead.
Onto paper from my eyes see just red.
Wasted life on this gold mine of splendour.
To loose it would make me feel so tender.
I hate. My love. Seen by many.
Those pictures inside not cured by any.
My creations that have had me crying.
My creations that leave me there dying.
Hours chained by sick love that makes me hurt.
It beacons to me whenever I look.
And I obey; reeled in by its hook.
Each pencil line rubbed off dirty dark lead.
Onto paper from my eyes see just red.
Wasted life on this gold mine of splendour.
To loose it would make me feel so tender.
I hate. My love. Seen by many.
Those pictures inside not cured by any.
My creations that have had me crying.
My creations that leave me there dying.
Comments10
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The rhyme is an interesting touch, but I have to say, free verse will always be king in my eyes. Normally rhyme makes a poem seem trite to me, but you've pulled it off well! A-! 