•her words
_
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poetry isn't spontaneous
like the fire burning in her heart,
when those venomous words
roll off your tongue so effortlessly
her words are built upon the hatred
buried deep inside her
those pages are etched with words
that itch in her throat and
threaten to spill out
she swallows them with pain
and spits them out
with a burning passion
on scraps of papers
her words are her tears
that went by unseen
YOU ARE READING
b l u e
Poetryblue |bloo| melancholy, sad, or depressed. sad and lonely in a strange city. poems are written by me. Copyright © 2018 by @aaryaeh
