My eyes are tired of seeing this road again.
The same broken houses,
the still black sky,
That same kid on a bench,
watching her thoughts die.
Crying over her broken pen,
and her papers burning.
Still not able to get over,
her verses jumbling.
My legs are tired of walking this road, through the night and day,
Sick of the same thorns,
pricking me on my way.
That same bog from yesterday has trapped me in again today,
Every single bone in my body is crying not to stay.
I am tired of being her,
who is everything that I can't be.
Afraid that someday I might become, someone who won't be me.
Let me pick up my pen and my burned papers,
Those that were thrown away and are now lost as vapours.
Let me be a phrase in my verse,
An open wing soaring in a flight.
Let me be me, and not her,
Let me tell you how stars shine.
-Azmii•
YOU ARE READING
In Verse
PoetryI trace verses from my portrait. A collection of poetries • by Azmii (•Image credits to the rightful owner)
