Garden of weeds.
Full of thorns.
So empty,
Yet full of yourself.
So lonely,
Yet crowded of memories I'd rather forget.
Am I alright?
Shall I eat the fruit again, to have to leave your damned land.
Leave me alone.
Get out of my head.
Please, I beg of you.
My dear, garden of weeds.
Garden of dead.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
YOU ARE READING
6:02 AM
PoesíaJust my innermost thoughts. A lot of these won't really have a meaning, in a way. This is a diary I rather keep to myself, but if expressing myself through words can only be written down on crappy paper and a cheap ball point pen, then I would rathe...
