I weep
On wrinkled pages
Of dried up tears.
On crumpled papers
Of old cries for help.
I wish
I could hold them in hands
Which do not tremble
From the pain
Of reignited sorrows.
I want
To post these feelings.
Fold them into delicate letters
And mail them to those
Who I hope would care to read. But,
I well know,
That this happy ending is not of my own,
And these fragmented lines
Will only be uttered by my broken voice,
Surrounded by peaks of empty envelopes.
YOU ARE READING
Writing Collection
PoetryJust a bunch of extra poetry(?) and a few short stories here and there.
