She is wrapped in the thorns of her soul,
bleeding from the heart her story to be told,
of the past that makes the flames grow.
Entangled in her lies her hands are tied,
and no one is around when the story of the wolf is cried.
She grows cold,
but still burning from the flames her ashes arose.
The thorns cooked through her skin and the blood boiled within,
nothing left of her but dust in the wind.
She should of told the truth rather then her stories,
never should of lied to all those crazy boys.
Now the psycho ex grabbed her throat,
flipped his blade and sliced as she choked.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem