Seven days in a week, but I'm still tired. Walking a lie, I know I shouldn't be alright. These days go slow, treacherous silent holes. Running in the dark, I see your face, though I no longer want to close that space, but terrified of the dark inside me... I don't want to be alone.
YOU ARE READING
Every Tear
PoetryStaring at these blank pages my mind is empty, the words won't bleed from my fingertips, for they only know my eyes.
