age was just a number
added to the register
on her skin,
forming layers of memories,
locked and pushed away.
•
her fingers bled
silent laughter
and ech oes of spilled tears
as the pen
bled longing into canvas of life.
•
she slowly
kept aside her wisdom
and smiled;
despite the melody
of a distant promise.
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stains
PoesíaA collection of musings from my heart that doesn't stick to a certain genre but mostly writes on heartbreak, depression, sadness, loneliness... of course masked under heavy abstract and metaphorical imageries. It might not be your simple poem to...
