Scream.
Empty the room
of grief and fury.
Their perfectionist
eyes see nothing
but rubbish little
victories.
To be soaring like
the wind is absurd
and unsightly.
Scream.
Hoarse your throat,
deaf their ear,
and be brave.
For they never
listened
nor spared a glance,
and you can also be
destructive.
Let them know
what you are
capable of.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
