One would say she was a waste,
a broken heart with bad music taste,
but they don't know the truth, no,
they don't know the truth.
She ain't crying for attention,
her heart's a constant competition,
fighting for the truth, filling itself with lies
and bashing itself for many failed tries.
Slowly it dies when thoughts of beauty dissipate,
burning with a flame of ever growing hate,
but they don't know the truth, no,
they don't know the truth.
YOU ARE READING
Beautiful Havoc
PoetryEvery story deserves to be told just as everyone has the right to live. This just happens to be my story. *A collection of 50 poems*
