Warm air swooshed across the shadows of the night,
panting in defeat,
she hadn't gripped the light.
She held on her life too tight,
that she couldn't breathe right.
She gripped her pen and got a piece of paper,
she decided to write out her life,
a keen picture of disaster.
She started with her past pains,
which broke her days to grains.
And then she etches again on a piece of paper,
a kin flutter of words you call a letter.
Scribbling everything that occupied her lonely cerebrum,
she could make out a book as her heart beated hard as a drum.
Killing herself as she reminisced every moment,
she never wanted such to happen,
it never was a beautiful ornament.
Her pen danced as her fingers did its magic,
but all you could read was an epic of her life,
a tale so sad, lonely and tragic.
Tears fell as she told her story,
damping the paper she wrote on,
words wet with emotions and fury.
Her heart was almost empty,
for everything relied on that piece of paper you see.
Her pen and paper became her life,
counter attacking her fate,
upholding dreams of happiness,
not strife.
She wrote with such passion and emotion,
even if she was alone to view her notions.
Her life was genuinely broken,
an empty, hollow dent.
Letter,
a paper,
destined to suffer.
Her life leaping bent,
this was her story that was never ever sent.
YOU ARE READING
Never Sent (Completed)
ŞiirIt was then she said: "Words fed, scathed, brought my soul together; and it would be preposterous if I'd get to feel all these sensations alone, so I am giving you a part of my suffering, a fragment of my universe, a debris of myself. Through these...
