Without the pain of unspoken words that have been devouring me alive, eating at my flesh, scraping my insides to the bones, this cannot be poetry.
Without the lonely cowardice that I mask through ink on paper, that have been growing thorns on each passing day, poking holes on my skin, this cannot be poetry.
Without the sinful truth that I have been hiding through a facade, the one thing I fear beyond the cold promise of oblivion, this cannot be poetry.
Without the bravado that I have perpetrated to bury the murder of myself, to finally forget that I died with the fall of the moon, this cannot be poetry.
For when the day comes that courage seeps into my being and decides to wear the full nakedness of me, that day will be the day life becomes poetry.
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Moon Child | Ongoing
Poetry"Home isn't always four walls. Sometimes it's one warm embrace And two people's heartbeats as one. " - Moon Child (StarHues) Collection of poems mostly tackling about falling in love with someone out of your reach. Musings about the pain of unrequit...
