Half the time I can't tell whether or not I want to write a poem and bleed my feelings onto a page in cryptic words that inspire or if I just want to rip my heart from my chest and hand it to those who can't see it.
Maybe with the weight of my dying heart in their hands could they understand just how heavy it is.
How heavy I am.
Shadows cling to my back like an endless cloak of clawing hands, etching their pain into me like a mental tattoo. It's a Permanent Damage.
Memories bottled and tossed into the sea. I'll never get them back.
Feelings buried in the cemetery. They rise like the dead and haunt me.
Running got me nowhere, fighting got me hurt, freezing kept me there.
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon A Time
RandomJournal/short stories/poetry. Things that I didn't know what to do with. When I try to write my brain comes up with a thousand different scenarios to a thousand different small ideas. I just haven't found a way to take those flashes and make lightni...
