He was a fire that burned from within. With every line he painted on the canvas, every word he wrote on a piece of paper, others burned with him. He spread the fire, and charred the surface of the earth. His fire burned every last bit of corrupted spirit, but it came at a price. A price that he was willing to pay.
So here I sit, alone and dressed in black, writing about a boy who changed the world.
•
My chest tightened, my breathing slowed. The pain heightened, and my screams echoed.
The lines blurred between right and wrong, and people slurred that I didn't belong.
Baring such misery was hard, but the illusory of safety had been marred.
Darkness shined from all corners of my home, and the sadness was unconfined and free to roam.
I crumbled under the weight, and stumbled through my wrecked state.
Living isn't worth this, I thought sinking further into the abyss.
•
It hurts, doesn't it? To watch him with her? To watch him smile and remember it's not because he saw your name pop up on his screen. To see him laugh and think about what joke it was that she told him, think about whether she tells the same god awful puns you did, or whether she makes silly faces for him to take a photo of and caption 'my gorgeous girl'. It hurts, doesn't it? To be up at 3 am thinking about him and knowing that he's thinking about her. To listen to that song on the radio, and feel the emptiness of the seat beside you. To see her kiss him on the neck and consider whether it has the same effect on him as it used to. It hurts doesn't it? To still love someone who forgot all about you.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts
PoetryJust a collection of thoughts and emotions that were felt too intensely to be dealt with on my own.
