We hang our hearts on a near-broken limb
And call it "love"
We cradle our broken hearts
And call it "heartbreak"
We refuse the love of those who really love us
And call it "healing"
We chain ourselves and our children to predictable poisons
And call it "safety"
We suppress our identity in creative ways, compromise ourselves
And call it "individuality"
We chase the dreams that chase their own tails
And call it "determination"
We digest lies, silence the truth, fall in "love" with denial
And call this "God"...
No wonder we're broken.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts in Bold Ink
PoetryDuring these teen years, I am at the door way between childhood and adulthood. As I take these baby steps, I don't ever want to leave behind pieces of me that I'm discovering, nor should I ever leave behind who I must always be. As I close the door...
