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Ink stains on my fingers,
words laced with regret.
Each verse a reminder
of the times I can't forget.
The bottle's empty now
and so is all my hope.
My pen only knows how
to write about the life
that's hanging by a rope.
My muse is long gone,
perhaps tired of my pain.
Leaving me with no song,
but the ones that cause my heart strain.
My vices, they've all won.
Their side effects in full bloom.
My poetry's undone,
leaving me consumed.
how I long for some release
from this cycle that's got me beat.
To find a path of peace
and a voice that can speak.
Until then, I'll keep writing..
words that sting like a knife.
Hoping someday all my fighting
will bring me back to life.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Side Effects
PoésieBroken poetry. Imperfect and I don't care to be anything different. My vices, my struggles.
