They rose from the ashes
with vengeance etched
into their skin
like tattoos.
Each one branded
upon their flesh,
a map of the choices
that bruised.
Worn like a cloak,
with arms still bare,
displaying their struggles
and pain.
Their anger burned brightly,
brimming with dares,
but once cooled,
left them empty in vain.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
