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This is the truth. This is the truth. You do not even realize the extent of your suffering. I see it so plainly in every downtilt of your chin, every tremble of your lip in the despised hour, every yellowed tooth and salty tear and aching tendon. I see it in the strings of your hair after several fired days. I see it in the pause of your voice, your quick jump to the tongue, the restlessness of your brain since you were so innocent and malleable.
I am such a poor artist, my dear, so soddened by my own terrible restlessness.
Lord! A devil I must be—I do not care to admit it. I am everything that is wrong with you.
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(July 7th, 2024.)
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection.
PoesieEvery poem that I have ever written in my designated poetry journal since the day I was eleven years old. Read at your own risk. 😎
