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She grew,
Out of hatred and spite,
Fear, jealousy and everything vice,
Out of the fog and grey in her sky,
And the soul etched with knives,
Out of love and hope,
The 11:11 wishes did not matter anymore,
Out of the silence of her screams
And the noise of her dreams.
She grew and this time she grew,
Breaking through the chains,
Out of joyful gloom,
Building her own tomb,
To her, the only sound place,
And they miserably named it grave.
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•єηтαηgℓє∂ ιη ωσя∂ѕ•
Poetryᴀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴇᴍs. ©-cuddlee- ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ sᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴛᴏ sʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sʜᴇ ɪs ғɪɴᴇ. ᴀ ʙᴏʏ ᴡʜᴏ sᴜʀʀᴏᴜɴᴅs ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ ᴡɪᴛʜ ғʀɪᴇɴᴅs ᴡɪsʜᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪs ʟɪғᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇɴᴅ. Ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴡʜᴏ sᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴇᴡ, ...
