94. My dark poetry

I think I found my dark Poetry

She's a writer
An organised mess,
She is blue, mystically blue
She creates this aura,
This aura of agony and angst
I can't hold, but dive
Into her abyss of pain and pandemonium
Her hair is ferociously dark
While her eyes are morosely painful
Her lips are fiercely red
She was a blue soul roaming in this dark world
Her poetry were like pebbles of gold
I treasured each,
One by one
They screamed, scratched, yelled, cried
At the end of every piece
Yearning for more, I sighed.

Not in books and pages, but she was my dark poetry.