Fires and flames were made
To cool the disgust you etch on
Your skin.
Ice, snow, sharp rains,
They burn their way into your stomach,
They kill you.
Words, people, knives,
We're hypocritical and
Dying inside; we want to survive.
Thirty different ways to die, and
None of them seems to be perfect for her,
She wants to go with an explosion.
Tie herself to a firework, ropes digging in her skin,
Until someone lit the fuse, and she shot through the sky,
Like a fallen star returning home.
The sorrow of someone who fell short of half a sky
On their way home, is
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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. ...
