Scattered between each sacred line,
shattered throughout time.
Looking at you tonight,
why must this in the birth of early light?
I rush into each morning,
hoping to find you lurking.
Tormented by the searching.
We scatter between the lines,
I end up shattered by false nights.
You live only in my what-if's,
learning to move on to new things.
Twenty-four is upon my reach,
Til then I'll sit here in bitter peace.
YOU ARE READING
The Journal
De TodoLetters from a boy who felt at one point or another alone. Who wrote as a way to find a new voice. These are things he wished he could've said. Things he should've claimed. And now will be saying. These are words that come from a place of hurt and...
