The battle field
stained and brushed
with lasting dreams
and a fine black dust.
The battle field
of happiness and death,
was brought to an end,
with a blade to the neck.
In this battle field,
the grass will grow old.
The rain from the sky,
will cause papers to crumple and fold.
The letters strewn, throughout the arena.
Coal black ink,
and tiny neat print.
What would you think
of all of this?
If you woke in this amphitheater,
broken and torn.
The warriors gone,
the war stretched and worn.
If you saw the empty wasteland,
within the column walls.
Goodbye letters,
blowing through it all.
Would you stop and admire.
Read a letter or two?
And wonder how,
this had become you?
Or look in disgust,
at what you had become.
And realize that life,
isn't always fun?
Because your goodbye letters,
tell the stories you can't speak,
and as you lie in your battlefield,
your loved ones are struck with grief.
They wonder why, you had ended it all.
And you wish to transport them
into this broken battlefield.
So they could read the letters
that you couldn't send.
YOU ARE READING
Nobody Was Meant to See
Poesía[Trigger Warning, please be safe when reading] They aren't supposed to know. They aren't meant to read these poems that I'm writing. I've concealed them for a reason. -Shitty poems about how I feel-
