How much longer must I carry this body of grief?
Made up of fragments of your touch,
And a kaleidoscope of wounds.
It feels like I'm stuck in time,
In a world that doesn't know me at all,
In a world that I don't know anymore,
I find you every night, confined in my memories.
I'm haunted by your touch
That whispers countless secrets on my skin.
Secrets like a constellation of scars,
Scars that neither let the light in, nor let the darkness out.
Like sorrow lost in translation.
My eyes stare at an empty wall,
The world caves in, suffocating me
I scream.
No sound comes out, but I scream nonetheless.
There's a metallic taste in my mouth, choking me.
My mind traps me in an endless loop of nothingness.
I try to scribble in pages, but my canvas remains empty.
My fingernails drip crimson-red.
I stitch melancholy into my skin every day.
I can't make poetry out of the pain you left me with.
There are no songs for this soul-shattering emptiness.
You took away all colours, and left me only with blue and red.
YOU ARE READING
Way Ward
PoetryLife is a jumbled mess. And from within this mess, I'm gifting you "your" stories, along with the stories of some other lost souls. Way Ward - A way to find your lost self.
