Never allowed to express the 5 layers of thoughts within…
My interior painted with tattered,
Green wants of peace,
While having streaks of red,
Which the narrator calls black just to twist the game again,
They start to slam their brushes of peace and black,
Brushes turn to sticks,
Now empty buckets of paint become the drum,
Never allowed to be sung for the lack of words…
Accompanied with the lack of patience,
The house of scream housed with whispers never to be heard.
I hear it all the time.