The world sells
destruction.
And,
I eat it for breakfast.
My home.
No, not a home.
My house
is too small
to fit in
all my anger
and destruction.
I see it leaking,
Cutting the sunlight
in two.
I sold my soul
to the devil
but, all he gave me
was this graveyard
of memories
that sits on my eyelashes,
instead of the dreams
he promised me.
One night,
I touched the sky
and asked,
“where are all the good things
in life?”.
The moon placed
its palm
on my heart,
and whispered
here.
here.
here.
YOU ARE READING
ZEPHYR
CasualeShe was constantly turning melancholy Into poetry Splattering the pain, that Coursed through her veins Onto pages of blank paper And watching, as her pain Wrote beautiful verses Turning pain into an art form Making people cry, at How something so ug...