My soul bleeds.
In more ways than one.
It tries to heal.
The heals feels like pills.
Pills feel absolute.
Needed, a must.
Thus the addiction is born.
The only way to remain sane.
Are pills.
Or am I no longer sane?
Soul has already bled out.
From pills.
Sole purpose too heal.
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Poems Of Sad Sorts
PoetryHere are just collection of poems, quotes, and sorts. Created from rambled scattered thoughts. Most if not all display a depressive route. Everything that is present here may or may not get revised somewhere down the line.
