How deep is the void in your heart,
If a false sense of self-scraping power
Makes you feel like you belong.
How filthy are the stains on your soul,
If hopping around narcissistic blingy crowds
Fills your shallow pot of self worth.
How old are the unhealed scars on your arms?
Does it make being tossed around like a penny,
Being abused like an nostalgia-infused baggy sweatshirt,
Being tricked and tripped to make their flimsy unrealistic fantasies a reality,
Worth it?
YOU ARE READING
Unfinished Paintings
PoetryA collection of my prose, poetry and epiphanies over the past couple of years. I've always loved writing and composing, but I'd never assumed anything I wrote was worth being read by anyone but myself. Writing has always been a way for my mind to co...
