today,
the second day,
i'm in more control.
she left the house
for food
ages ago.
i pick up my guitar.
i strum a few chords.
and for the first time
in four years,
i sing.
and my troubles
weep out
in the song.
YOU ARE READING
clouded
Poetrycigarettes, to the broken soul, are what advil is to an aching head. an escape from all pain. -- best rank: #974 in short story