She lives in a room of fire and death
lying in a bed of thorns
her back is full of wounds
blood is steaming hot and
bruises are as dark as the night.
She is killed
by the sharpest knife of failures
that every stumble is a sin
and every mistake is a dirt
now, she's taking her way towards her end.
The nakedness of her wounds
feels the death-cold wind
it hurts, seeing her body drenched in blood
can't see the beauty of her femininity
for the world made her a distracting mystery.
Took a one last step
she's flying
under the emptiness of the stars
above the roughness of the lights
she's freed from the battle against herself.
-roseesesch
YOU ARE READING
Broken
PoetryThis poem is written by my thoughts, past and heartbreaks. This is where I put all the bleeding words in my head. A broken poem from a broken pen. And this poem is not just for me. I also write to rescue those dying hearts. I write for those who can...
