A beautiful material,
That was never meant to be used like this,
Forced to bear the marks of our fingers.
The injuries of our sins permanently manifested within a form we do not fully understand.
Forced to present the scars we gain from our art,
For our art.
It forever cries tears stained blue,
Gray with use and soulless intrigue.
Inspiration sealing it in a forever stolen tomb,
One we cry for when it reaches death,
When it finally breaks.
As it rejoices and returns to the Earth,
All to begin again...
YOU ARE READING
Metamorphasize
PuisiThis is a collection of poems written as a way to control a person's feelings; originally they were never intended to be seen by human eyes. This is written from the point of view of someone who struggles with emotional turmoil but feels they cannot...
