Verses of heaven and hell,
Painted on tainted papers.
The spilled ink suit it well,
Like its sin stained writer.
Mistakes in a poem show
When words bring out sorrow.
Yet the readers would never know
Of the wishes we borrow.
A writer of life and death,
Pages bare with irony.
A statement like that of theft,
Seeking pride filled poetry.
Paper bins so filled with dread,
Like thoughts that fill your head.
There's nothing we can ever mend
With just some paper and a pen.
If we ever wrote a million rhymes,
Like hymns in the greatest book,
Would we be gifted back the times
Before our lives were overlooked?
©emily_cjw
E