Whenever I record myself
reciting a poem ,
My heart stings with the glass shards of anxiety.
I feel the blood in it flows allover the place,
Despite the vessels.
My lips will be trembling ,
My voice came out shaky , with an addition of lumps.
My hands will be shaking with the overwhelming ache in me.
I feel like I'm showcasing my grief.
Feels like I'm peeling my skin,
Exposing who I'm,
Not the version I've spun for them to believe.
With every word I mumble the pain in me ties a knot on my body , I fear it will pin down my hands to cease the birthing of words , apparently mothered by my grief.
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
