The hole in my heart is a void I do not know how to fill.
Paired with a mind I cannot turn off,
I am the ruins of a wooden house
Lit on fire.
Illuminating the twilight, I light the way for others,
Yet I cannot save myself.
My trembling hands reach out to you.
I wish, I could give you the world.
But my shaky hands can only produce the incomplete puzzle
That is myself.
The pieces are ripped and torn,
And although some of them don't fit together
Quite right,
The picture will still be beautiful.
Yet you don't want it.
But I don't want it either.
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoesíaA collection of poetry written by myself over the years. Although no particular theme is intended, a lot of them seem to be depression based.
