I put a cigarette out on my arm again, the pain mixed with anger was quite the cocktail.
Now I'm mixing prescription medications so that even if I do want to feel, I simply can't.
I am an author running low on ink, too broke to buy any more, or maybe too broken to even try.
For the moment, I sit in silence with my thoughts and let them question me instead of them.
I ponder on the "if only" factor of everything, too blind to realize I'm breaking my own goddamn heart.
YOU ARE READING
Roses In The Sun
PoetryA book dedicated to the thoughts that lie beneath the surface of all that I am, all that I will be, and all that I hope to become. A book dedicated to the outcasts, to those who've felt invisible, to those who want to read and fall in love with the...
