I hid the
serious feelings
in a shoebox
underneath my bed
with the
inability to express them,
but desperately
drowning,
needing,
them to pour
out of my
bleeding heart.
That's why I started writing.
Because otherwise
I would drown
into numbness,
nothingness,
emptiness,
hollowness.
And it
started with the
shoebox
that saved me,
lying underneath the
place I dreamt,
with the words I
could never say.
YOU ARE READING
hiraeth
Poetrythe yearning, the grief for the lost places of the past; a place or person or feeling that is beyond this plane of existence. poems that are personal and deep, written with a dull ache of the soul. poems about what I fear, what I haven't been willin...
