Scraps of paper are
no longer whole.
Scraps of food are
no longer wanted.
Scraps of memories are
no longer prized.
Scraps of ashes are
no longer ignited.
Scraps of puzzle pieces are
no longer fitting.
Scraps of light are
no longer illuminating.
Scraps of life are
no longer meaningful.
If I am scrap,
what is my meaning?
YOU ARE READING
Standing
Poetry"I choose to believe there are more than three stages in life. For me, I say there are five." Eva Longsten was crumbling, but soon she found life was easier when you were breathing. She was holding onto who she was until she realized releasing he...
