People ask me questions.
I act like they don't bother me,
but they do. People think I am
weird because I like the
colors red and black. And because
I write poems about death.
People are always making me
mad and they don'tever try
to be nice. They are always
wondering why I am so mad
all the time. One day they
will regret it. It may not
be tomorrow, or in a year, but
one day day they will regret it,
maybe. I change my mind, they
won't regret it.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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overall good
I like the brutal honesty that flows in these words.
sadly though the piece doesnt really have a poetic feel to me. I mean the subject is clear the imagery is clear also but the general flow and wording makes it sound more like a paragraph. but as i said everything flows in images. so kkep up the good work
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