the sky is soft and my heart is hard and
i cannot bring myself to believe that it is
made of diamond because even though it cuts,
it does not shine and
I am tired of this place,
this place I reside in,
this world I live in,
this body I call home.
sometimes people have scars and sometimes they are scars.
never healing,
never hurting,
a wound of unfleshed truths and
harsh lies and sweet little poison lives.
if lucifer met me,
I would hug him tight and never let go.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
