Warm charcoal against cold white sky
Line after line, line, line—
This is not a city but a keep
And sometimes you have to build walls.
Scratch them out on precious, rare
White paper
Will there be enough? I don’t know
Anymore.
I am God at His brush,
Apologetic and trembling—
I’ve always been a liar.
The bag of paint at my side—torn, and dirty,
Like the water that washes away each failure.
Scrub red off of uncertain hands;
See, a little water clears us
Of this deed:
How easy.
Easy.
It is not.
******************
A/N: God, I'm so nervous. XD What's wrong with me? Gotta do this before I lose my nerve...
Uh... anyway, I'm not usually a poetry person... at all. XD I don't even know if this is the right category.
But uh... we were reading and interpreting some Plath works in Language Arts, and they kind of inspired me. Anyway, I know this isn't that great; I haven't written a poem since, like, sixth grade. But I kinda wanted to try my hand at something new, and so... yeah.
I know it's pretty bad, don't eat me. XD But I'm curious to see if I can make it better, or if I'm really just trying to do something I can't.
So yeah. Time to throw some tomatoes. XD
Points: 3042
Reviews: 14
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