She is not a girl and not a woman
not a chic and not a lady
Just an old soul trapped in a young heart
She's a phenomena
She treasured her scars for the stories they held
like the way people appreciate a good book
... and she was her own kind of library.
I admired her sparkle until I looked closer and saw the shattered glass embedded all over her skin
She was like the sun: warm and brilliant enough to make everyone blind to the dark spots on her heart
She sang a song of fear and a song of beauty.
a song of pain and a song of glee
She was cut and bruised and pressured and hurt and that is what made her real.
She is afraid to give herself to someone 'cause she wants to give it whole,
and she may be too much to be handled.
Most of all, she was happy... and hoping that she will be.
She was my mother.
She was my friend.
and now I fear,
that She is me.
YOU ARE READING
The Unspoken
RandomMy own kind of "Excerpts from the book I'll never write" Just random "poetic" things that popped out of the blue and I think they need to be somewhere else than my, too chaotic mind. Warning though, most of this was created when I was not fine. ...
