She rubbed and rubbed
And rubbed some more;
Traces of lines on paper,
Blotches of ink,
Smudges of graphite,
Light and dark
Pale and burnt..
To erase them meant
She would no longer see
The chaos of her soul,
The stains of her blood,
The scars of her wounds,
The howls of her breath.
If she wouldn't see
She wouldn't remember
If she wouldn't remember
She wouldn't feel
If she wouldn't feel
She wouldn't break
Shatter, so much..
And thus she rubbed
And rubbed some more;
If only she knew
That
Some were meant to leave,
But
Some were meant to stay..
YOU ARE READING
MUSINGS.. A collection of poetry
PoetryPoetry is.. beauty, style and grace; Poetry is.. insightful, precious and profound; Poetry is.. ecstasy, passion and glee; Poetry is.. past, present and future; Poetry is.. heart, mind and soul; Poetry is truly a blessing.. Feel the same? Somewhat...
