SEVENTY-THREE
wither away like autumn flowers
I know your heart does not swell
when I tiptoe through the shadows.
I know your skin does not set fire onto itself
at the very thought of me in your cranium.
But me, I climb mountains for you,
cross rapids for the thrill.
Dance on broken legs for your entertainment.
All for your smile, twisted and proud.
Anything for the damned you cause.
I breathe for you, you crush me.
Wait on arching bone and drooling lips
for you to speak,
but your mouth mumbles
Sometimes, I wonder if you are
even real.
― I wither at the distance between you and I.
Do you prefer modern poetry or classic poetry?
𒐀 I enjoy both, I think both can be very beautiful in their own ways, but I definitely read more modern poetry on a daily basis. I also relate more to modern poetry.
May
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𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 ➙ 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
PoetryMELANCHOLY | Melancholy drips from my fingertips. Here, I will speak the sadness, the heartache, and the decaying for all the unspoken. Perhaps under this layer of melancholy, the girl I once knew still exists. First poetry collection i...
