Not corpses yet we rot
It's because we fail
To pay homage
To all those versions
Scattered parts of ourselves
That reside within
The wannabe singer
The artist and his muse
The trickster
And all parts battered down with scars
We repressed them
Promising to keep it under wraps
Not knowing we were digging graves
Of our own selves
With no one flower to give
Thus we rot
And hide when we cry
Cause maybe it's not us
But their ghosts trying to escape
For after they didn't get due respect,
The due homage?
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Inked Stains & Crumbled Pages ◇ COMPLETED ◇
PoetryDive into a raw, free-verse journey into the unfiltered corners of the human mind and heart. Through scattered thoughts, half-finished dreams, and the echoes of late-night reflections, this collection explores the beauty found in imperfection. Each...
