there's something ironic
about blankly staring at
the wall in front of me
knowing that my body
and my mind
are fighting a war
of it's own
knowing that what my eyes see
aren't the same as what i witness
within me
knowing that i am the damage
every battle leaves in their wake.
if you were given an assignment
to write down what i feel
on a piece of paper?
you would bleed and cry
through the ink that's encased
in your hands;
let everything flow out
like a glass of water
too many drops too much.
you would, wouldn't you?
all i could do
was tear it apart
until everything is in pieces
left with the paper cuts on my hands
and the mess around me;
i guess that perfectly describes how
i do feel.
please hinder me from crying
in the middle of a class
at 10:30 am.
YOU ARE READING
dust untouched
Poetrydust untouched from the clutter in an abyss we call "minds" in various styles // trigger warning. please do be careful. highest rank: #38
