to my dead butterflies,
i am sorry for feeding you lies
which i thought was sweet nectars.
to my wrecked home,
i am sorry for letting a robber enter us,
i thought he'd be like you, my peace,
but he was just a pure robber
who never gave pure feelings.
to my ripped diary,
i am sorry for writing his name
together with my erroneous thoughts,
i thought he'll complete us
but all he did was to rip your pages.
to my missing soul,
i am sorry for connecting your ribbon
into someone who was already
locked in someone else's chain,
i thought he'll take us home,
not here—not in this cage.
YOU ARE READING
Poems As Her Therapy
PoetryWhen you're depressed, it is greatly advised to take therapies with a psychologist and so she tried but even psychologist can't take her wounds into peace so she just grabbed her pen under her old bed and stroke words just like how she used to and t...
