DUSTY BOX:
The scars and cuts run up her arms, forever printed.
Of why she had done what she did
The scars remind her the past is real.
Yesterdays memories.
Letters upon letters.
A box full of old precious incounters.
Failures. Down the drain.
Of pointless relationships.
One after the other.
With inhumane , stupid fools.
Who she thought she loved.
Was pointless, and now put aside.
In a box.
Full of fun old precious memories.
To never see the light again
Until another one comes along.
To open , that dusty box.
YOU ARE READING
TRUST ME
PoetryA collection of short/long poems I have written through out the years. Some sad/depressing and some happy.
