poor little her,
drowned in her own flood,
her own cry,
her own storm.
the anxiety she kept
on the shelf
came back to kill her
with her own little hands
and lovely cries.
she ran from her all her life,
but she stumbled
and never went far.
she wants to look no more,
but there's blood
in her eyes.
YOU ARE READING
White Heat's Grave (Poetry Collection)
PoetryThis book contains an assemblage of brief free-verse poems that express my views and experiences. It encompasses eighteen years of my life and a particular manifestation of melancholy. All poems created and shared were original. Any unauthorized use...
