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29|7|18
Shattered like a glass
We watch our reflections
Torn like paper
We glance at our souls
Butchered like animals
We look at our bodies
Spun with malice
We spew hate at our own
Our tongues laced with poison
Our eyes synonyms for daggers
We tear us in half
Until we're shreds to the core
But for whom do we do this, may I ask?
The society we so seem to please with every task
The very same people who pluck out flowers
With the sole reason of liking to kill with their powers
But why do we forget, we are not at the mercy of others?
That even though we are delicate, we're sharp like cutters?
For however elegant a rose may be
It's still weaved with thorns
To protect it from people like you and me
♤
YOU ARE READING
1.1 || Floraison
Poetry*completed* ○•FLORAISON ○•(French : Bloom) •Words spun into poems Letters dipped in gold Sentences laced with elegance Alphabets with a story of their own ○• I present you FLORAISON, a book whose blank pages bloomed when ink touched the rough pape...
