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• 2:27 am •

35 2 0
                                        

This heavy, tar like cloud,
one of pure anguish,
continues to hang low over my head,
and my slowly, weakening frame of bones.
Everything is happening so quickly,
yet I sit almost paralysed
under the warmth of the bed sheets,
staring at the ceiling; a blank canvas.
Where my mind projects painful memories,
and paints words of agony.
It's a dangerous, deadly cycle,
one of six foot waves
filled with immense sorrow,
that all come crashing down over me.
Still paralysed,
all I can do is sink beneath the swell,
an ocean of distressed tears.

Broken Wings - Poetry {COMPLETED}Stories to obsess over. Discover now