SEVENTY-THREE
wither away like autumn flowersI 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. SOON TO BE A PUBLISHED PAPERBACK. COMING 2025! This melancholy drips from my fingertips so slowly, you begin to forget I even exist. All of me, the hard parts of flesh you could never seem to love...