i know we all do some
pretty horrible things,
i do,
but i think of what i've done
and my hands,
once steady,
tremble
relentlessly.
my chest tightens,
constricting,
a visceral vice,
and my heart -
my worn heart,
stu-stu-stutters in my sleep.
(ALTERNATIVE TITLE: FORGIVE ME FATHER, FOR I HAVE SINNED)
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n.) a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. an anthology of visceral verses and pretentious poetry. (this is a collection of my shorter pieces).
