je te laisserai des mots, ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ᴡᴀᴛꜱᴏɴ, 00.28
it is such a gloomy day;
the foliage contrasts the late morning grey.
crickets echo round the field's lonely oval;
compared to the earth, my sorrows seem so trivial.
i sit on mossy rock, where ivy runs through;
minuscule raindrops soak my ink and my paper, too.
i feel so helpless, so utterly helpless;
i'm tired of hearing what everyone has to say,
the rain falls harder, my body gives a shudder;
thinking of home only makes me sadder.
i abhor so much about this cruel, cruel world;
yet it's so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, isn't it absurd?
i miss the painful relief of steel against bronze;
i hate the promise to stay clean for the rest of my months.
i feel like a failure, i feel so alone;
running up a hill rolling my burdens with a stone.
it feels so unfair; have i been robbed of emotion?
my tears have dried for so, so long.
YOU ARE READING
[14] - monday's child.
Poetry𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘴. original poetry i wrote at fourteen.