Fool,
he'll whisper to himself,
the term hanging in the air,
as a sudden breath of air is pulled.
He's gasping from pain
as the wall is hurt again.
He's
punching a wall in hopes,
that the storm inside will die down.
Fool,
the term still hangs there.
As he turns around and
slides down the wall,
cradling a hurting hand.
.
YOU ARE READING
DETACHED
PoetryPoems, just poems. This is pretty much my notebook, where I write down stray thoughts and ideas. These poems are not always about me or anyone specific. Highest Ranking: #53 6/8/17 #106! 4/25/17 #94! 4/26/17 #85! 4/27/17 #78! 5/1/17 #71 5/8/17...
