this was 4 my english class its very bad pls dont touch me
I am very sorry that my words aren't sunsets,
or blue skies, or blossoming flowers.
I am sorry that my words aren't painted yellow like the midday sun,
or the most beautiful, deepest blue
Maybe I'm blessed, that on a good day,
my words are the smell of rain, or second-hand smoke,
or fallen leaves.
Painted grey with numbness, or left blank in fear they'd be destroyed.
But on most days, my words crawl like worms and maggots,
giving out the sound of broken strings, chaining me down like shackles.
Not marked in any shade, as if there's no trying.
Or maybe the paint's just dried up.
& though I apologize, there is little guilt you see,
as i am cursed, with many others like me,
that our words reflect on whats inside.
but the mirror's cracked, & anyway,
most days,
dont we all just feel like dirt?