i don't know how long i've been imprisoned,
in this small dark cell,
i'm pretty sure it's been over a decade,
since i've been thrown in this hell,
the windows are small,
enough to let light in,
but not big enough,
to see my worth from within,
the doors are heavily locked,
they kept the keys hidden,
so no one could enter my heart,
even leaving is forbidden,
i walked around, holding a silver chalk,
i glanced at the wall then started adding lines,
so i could remember the days,
i always said i'm fine,
that it's okay,
there's no need to worry,
everything is going great,
and that it didn't hurt me,
the walls knew the opposite way around,
and as i continued adding lines,
the walls started to cry
as if someone was pouring red wine,
i would cover the walls with cloth,
so no one would see,
so no one would ask,
what the hell is wrong with me.
YOU ARE READING
a hurricane of blues | poetry book 2 ✔
Poetry[ poetry and prose book 2 ] ❝you're so good at comforting others but who's comforting you?❞ a shelf of poems and proses containing the chaos and pain of heartache, loneliness, anger, grief, and sadness. s t a r t e d : f e b r u a r y 2 0 2 1 e n d...
