Carousels of unbinding love and hopelessness.
memories of forgetful youths on dusty bookshelves.
The books sit untouched, unread. They held irreplaceable stories and tragedies written by sorrowful poets who had gone through too much.
I am a poet who had gone through too much.
Keyword had
Things began to darken and it was too much for this poet to endure.
She had enough.
She left her tragedies on the dusty shelf for someone else to read.
Maybe they'll understand why she wrote so much
If no one loved her when she still smiled.
Maybe they'll love her when she's
dead.
———————————-
Okay so what I realised is that most of my poetry are like really short stories and I want to switch it up and try different styles, ya know?
