Young Writers Society

To The Sound Of Tuesday

The twilight forced itself on the surroundings,
and paper was the resistance.
Lighting a fire in flesh of caligraphy,
is winning back the lost ground,
from the dead months that left the calendar.

Here I am, back at last week with black hands,
burning the days as a concept.
Something flammable to pass the time,
something flowing to make it right,
euphoria dripping from my seat on the step.

Go find the box that was that prison of notes,
its next to my messed up bed.
Shame thats still in tact because,
leaking is still a contamination,
and one thought comes to mind...

Comtaminate this...

There were a few spelling errors, but the poem itself was kind of... tranquil? It was a nice read.

Why thankyou.