I whittled
And carved
My mind away,
Beneath the hawthorn tree
That day.
Scratch one.
Cut two.
Slice three.
Carve away the memories.
Scrape four.
Saw five.
Whittle six.
Scraped away from where
I sat, transfixed.
Jammed at seven,
Tugged at eight.
Tore through nine,
Spliced ten.
Cut my hands on shattered shards.
Bloody, broken, bruised,
Begin again.
Whittle, whittle, whittle until your mind
Is in a 'tasteful' shape.
YOU ARE READING
Avenge The Broken Ones
PoesíaThis is simply a collection of the poems I hurriedly scratch out around midnight. I usually write about whatever stokes my fancy at the moment - usually sad things, or ramblings about love. Depression and anxiety rule my life, so be prepared to exp...
