ugly sores cover dripping words
an old story you love to whisper
to a crowd that doesn't listen
lines that end in salty tears
and begin in shaking fingers
you whimper as the story
stretches across bare skin
and stains the cloth you wear
you tell your story a million times
yet your book remains unopened
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
