The clock's ticking echoes off the four walled room.
The white walls are clean yet stained. Stained with memories forgotten,
Thoughts rewritten,
Stories untold.
And on the four postered bed,
Sits there she,
She who cares not of her appearance,
She who reads her nights away
She who writes countless poetries praised.
Her thoughts are stars,
She cannot fathom into constellations,
Her words are hurtful,
Daggers in one's chest.
Her cascading raven hair,
A nest of secrets.
There are Lies rolled,
Underneath her tongue.
And there's darkness in her soul.
As the night slips away,
So does she,
Leaving behind her mark,
That are too often scars.
YOU ARE READING
The Implications Of Affection and Other Things
DiversosHurt, love, loss, rush. Emotions is what makes us human. The heart and mind run us into unknown situations everyday. We all have that phase in life when we fall deeply madly into love, or suffer from heart break, fits of anger, rush of old memories...
