Last time you broke me
Your needle words poked me
Your thunderstorm soaked me
And it's never the same.
The poor heart needs mending
But no one comes tending
But why keep depending
When I should be ashamed.
It's extremely sick
Can no longer be fixed
By your unkempt hand stitch
I'll do this by myself.
Needles you stab me with
Threads you tie me with
Patches of cloths you gift
I need all, but not your help.
I keep torturing it
Sticking patches on it
Sewing stitches in it
To put it back together.
The thread goes loose
It's left with livid hues
So I guess there's no use
I should create another.
But that would mean
Everything we've been through
Will all be forgotten
Along with you.
YOU ARE READING
The Silence of My World
PoetryA collection of poems conjured by an amateur writer. A compilation that reflects the writer's thoughts, muses, feelings, and some was spun fictionally. A miscellany of randomness, with a deep meaning, or just a vent poured out of a pained and tortur...
