Since my book is entitled "Dear Withered Poetry," I only see it fair to start a poem containing withered.
You can't outrun your past, although it's dead and withered behind you. The ashes seem to surround you when you least expect it. No one could have saved you, because you never wanted to be saved.
But you wake up every morning, and your first thought is, "I can't do this anymore." And the thoughts become so unbearable like the heavy hand of death clasping ever so dearly on your neck.
And everyday you wake up with a pain and it's killing you. Slowly but surely, killing you. You can't outrun the memories no matter how withered they always come back, your tears being the only water they need to bloom.
And what are you suppose to do; When the withered memories begin to bloom? Who are you to trust, Who are you to turn to? When you can't handle the weight of deaths hand on your neck much longer.
When instead of the memories withering, It's you? The most difficult part of life isn't when no one understands you. It's when you can't understand yourself. Because you can't keep pretending, when your soul is already withered.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Withered Writing
PoetryI write because my soul lies beneath the ink. And with every slip of my pen, sparks return to exhale passion and reason into my writing. (This book has become my therapy, and it will either lead me to get better. Or lead me to death.)
