She was more herself in times of loneliness,
Solitude was all she had known,
As she learned to talk to herself,
The more delicate she had grown,
There was a fine line between being independent,
And confiding in only yourself,
I wish she had known that I was there,
Because she was also myself,
These times are filled with misery,
I seemed to be underwater,
For my cries of help were silenced,
And I never again sought after,
And I never again sought after.
belle
YOU ARE READING
The Poems I Wrote In My Leather Journal
PoetryJust a place for me to share the poems I write inside of my leather journals. Let's read together... If you want to share any experience you have dealt with that made you feel less than who you are please message me. You should never have to deal w...
