tw: alchohol
broken:
i'm a glass of red wine.
made of cracking crystal.
my color spills from the fractures and onto your white clothes.
you'll cry out in disgust as the crimson soaks your pure clean garments.
you'll discard of me.
i'm broken.
you rid of broken things.
but i can't help it.
you're the reason i'm broken.
you would squeeze me when you got angry,
slowly but surely cracking my hard exterior over time.
it's your fault.
and yet you'll still blame me.
throw me away without another thought.
oh well.
i'm used to it by now.
YOU ARE READING
my poetry isn't real ☆
Poetry"i'm a poet in the sense that i write poetry. god awful poetry that doesn't rhyme or make sense" a collection of poems, tackling all sorts of topics, from all kinds of inspirations, from a writer who's sure his work is nothing more than pretty words.
