The censored pain screams from the implications lingering vaguely in the shadows of the words, in the white spaces between the letters.
The pain of a little lifetime buried in the snow of white pixels flickering blue, a polished winter wonderland gleaming brightly while obscuring an entire world beneath its glittering surface, reflected in burning eyes that have been staring at screens too much and slept way too little.
Burst capillaries like thin trails of blood in the snow.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryI'm not good at writing poems. I also don't like writing poems. For unknown reasons I write poems from time to time. Without anyone forcing me to, I might have to add. Well, most times... *glares hatefully at her english teacher* If you want to read...
