I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
and I've written pages upon pages
trying to rid you from my bones
but back you come with every word
every sentence, and you're there
I can't forget, I can't move on
you're making my pages tear
my spine is cracked, my cover is ripped
and my ink is slowly fading
this is all your fault, why I'm so worn
so then how are you still waiting?
YOU ARE READING
Unknown
Poetrythis is gospel for the fallen ones locked away in permanent slumber assembling their philosophies with pieces of broken memories
