The Poet
While the rest of the world,
Weighed her down.
Behind her pen,
She wishes to be found.
Behind her pen,
She's bound to confide.
From every little thing,
Nothing to hide.
words in her head,
There she found her escape.
Weaving a world,
Out of scrape.
Beneath her pillowcase flows
Rivers she tried to hide
Behind every rhyme
She tried to hide
In her own thoughts,
She learned to float.
White lies up she brought,
As hard as she fought
Hanging by a thread,
Everything felt patched.
Picking everything,
Made out from scratch.
words her mouth can utter,
Holds a pen pointing to herself
Dull as ever
Maybe that's why the words always stutter.
"The rain is going to end soon."
The wind whispers
as if reassuring Her.
"After all what's left to wither?"
As my words reach those who need me,
I need them to reach out for me as well.
For I long for saving
From this damning hell.
Letting my pen make the noise,
On my behalf.
In-between the words
I found my other half
How my soul bleeds for
every verse i write.
Stitching words,
Making it rhyme.
How my heart aches
For every word i write.
How my tears ricochet
From the moment i see light
After all that's what poets do;
Their purpose.
To tive,to die,to drown,
To feel every open wound
And to write everything down.
YOU ARE READING
What You've Lost Along The Way
PoezjaThe cold breeze, starry skies, and late night city lights while reminiscing the moments that made you feel human. Reaching a state where you felt a dying need to look back at the things you've conquered along the way. A collection of Poems or rathe...
