"The crimson red of my ink smeared it's substance making sure my pores bled more.
The reflection of the bright light still blinding my vision from the sight that it created.
It won, my mind, no longer in control of the deadly whisperers.
That laughed when I struggled in my near death, but now they cackled louder.
Begging to see more of my demise, they won in the end.
Leaving me to fight the jolts of reviving my soul that shattered into dust when they first whispered my deepest fear, leaving me in the endless numbness of regret."
YOU ARE READING
Shattered
Poetry"She held on to the thorn knowing it would prick her, and grabbed on to it's roots knowing she would fall, but the hope that flickered in her eyes always seem to shimmer, nothing demolished it at all, she carved her art on the canvas and set the li...
