My left hand tells my story
In all its vulgar glory
My smallest finger is crooked
My pointer finger grows the wrong way
There's nothing there to say
My finger tips are smudged with pencil lead
The small scrapes are red
On my wrist I wear a band of green
All of this, can be seen
My watch keeps the time as I run
Under the hot and grueling sun
And faintly, there are two scars
From a time I thought I couldn't go on
YOU ARE READING
Inner Silence
PoetryThe inner silence is always there. Waiting. watching. recording. Recording the chaos and misery of my existence. A collection of depressing poems of my life.
