There isn't beauty in pain or
sadness eked out little by little, stored away in blue broken bottles.
Why we worship bandaged muses of our past? We do not know.
Or we do.
We're the odd ones who take joy in our grief.
Take comfort in our sorrow.
YOU ARE READING
When The Heart Whispers
PoésieThe poems reflect evergreen and intense emotions while others are as light and weightless as feathers. It's like the heart whispers softly, waiting to be heard. ~Vote and Comment~ © tanxsha [Previously warped_realities]
