Last time we spoke on this spiritual plane.
I covered your eyes from the truth and the pain.
You pushed me aside to see the scars.
I picked at the scab of your mental wars.
We battled the words from the left unto the right.
I imagined this would be our last fight.
Breathe in and cry out.
Dig your hole and bury the hatchet.
From the likes of your many facets, one door down the hall.
I see you screaming, I hear you smile.
This will be it, that will be all.
The moment the sun sets.
We the angels must fall.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
