This is to you,
From a bruised bush, blooming flower and a growing tree.
We just want you to open your eyes and see.
Each shattered reflection is a part of you begging to be let free.
You're breaking at your seams,
The memory of his hands,
The disgusting fullness that is left imprinted,
From when he forced his allure into innocence.
Coloured the sheets with red and hate and fed nothing but scraps of love.
You descended from and angel to a dove.
Were we not condemned to be set free?
Do you not suffer to grow, little girl?
Do we not make new dreams?
Tell me then,
What do you see when you look into this broken mirror of your childhood dreams?
Do you see me?
-Or do you see the shattered dreams of my youth?
YOU ARE READING
To the Shattered Dreams of My Youth
PoetryA collection of poems written in the midst of losing myself. In a world of chaos, thoughts of death and being left behind. "The world is too cruel to be kind."
