Folded pictures of old
smells like broken bronze
Wooden frames of charcoaled-paints
wave back the memories of pain.
Afraid of the mortar's mouth
it might bring ashes of past
Triggered guns and firing rough
the world out there is so tough.
Quit praying
sands of hope are already vanishing
Quit praying
no one can save you-
from the past you're living.
-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...
