Thirteen.
We are the death number,
Cold, silent, a fatal disease.
When everything begins and
Doesn't know when to end.
Fifteen.
Our hearts hurt, stabbing
Pains of sorrow in our chest.
Web-thin promises, broken
Before they were even made.
Seventeen.
We're taller and try to see
The world better, but our heights
Do not catch up with the wrongs
That everyone else is so adept at doing.
Nineteen.
Childhood; a distant dream,
The countdown has begun, we're
Just too fragile; we'll annihilate
Before we can walk; shatter, before
We can say something worth being said.
Twenty one.
We've given up. Hey there, death,
How are you doing?
We'll meet, I promise, sooner yet,
But please, learn to disguise your
Beauty, because we fell for you a
Long time ago, when thirteen was just an age
And not your true form.
And then, we forgot to live.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
