Wood crackles and sparks rise up before my eyes.
My face and feet are warm
the heat slowly making its way
Up my legs and down my neck.
My bare feet are dirty and damp from the soil
And the log I sit on is covered in moss.
Stars shine bright above me
I can see every constellation.
Someone is playing a quiet song on guitar
And I know every word.
YOU ARE READING
Art Will Survive, Artists Won't
PoesíaThis book is a compilation of free-form poetry that I've written. Most of it is pretty personal, but I hope you'll like it regardless. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: depression, self-harm, lgbtq+, suicidal thoughts
