Cheeks full of scars.
Drowning in clear skies, no rain.
Blade running through your arm.
Feels like living in vain.
Living in war,
living in hell being a saint.
It seems like your only options to be happy are
to continue and born again.
Continue and born again.
YOU ARE READING
Beloved, my John
PoetryWe were gods in those days. Now we are more than that. [First time publishing my pieces in english. Any feedback would be great!]
