my body walks
five feet in front of me.
i've been floating above myself,
holding on to strings
just barely keeping me tethered.
are the edges fraying for everyone?
or is it just me
wriggling beneath my skin?
maybe i'm supposed to exist
apart from myself,
until the dirt finally tears my soul
from its prison.
YOU ARE READING
metanoia
PoetryM E T A N O I A (n.) : the journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life this is my first poetry book, and because this book is not completed yet they are very unorganized. when i'm finished the book will be rearranged. all poetry is...
