Sometimes I feel pretty,
Most of the times, I don't.
Sometimes I feel like I'm loving myself enough,
Most of the times, I don't.
And I wondered,
Why I keep hurting myself?
Just to see red coming out from my scars,
Heart made of glass shattered into pieces,
Tears falls like waterfalls under my eyes,
Until my mind becomes numb,
No more tears in my eyes,
No more heart other than pieces on the ground,
but red blood that keep bleeding,
from my scars
until it's all out,
then be dead.
YOU ARE READING
Ink & Paper
PoetryEvery thoughts, words, and feelings that I failed to said... It's all in this paper.
