"Isn't lovely, all alone? Heart made of glass, my mind of stone. Tear me to pieces, skin to bone. Hello, welcome home" - Billy Eilish
It seems as though I have given up a key factor of my being.
Poetry used to flow out of my mind and onto the paper like words from my mouth, like a river.
But even rivers run dry, don't they?
It seems as though my silence was never violent enough for someone to notice or rather say anything.
I am still coughing up blood from the last time I was stabbed in the back.
I am letting go, just one last time.
Because in the end, we all die.
But isn't it lovely, all alone?
(IM HAVING MAJOR WRITER'S BLOCK)
YOU ARE READING
AJ's Poetry Book
PoetryIve been writing this since middle school so my poetry skill has grown some bit. I hopw you enjoy seeing my growth.This poetry book was inspired by someone that I used to know. I write all my poetry in here, that is untill I reach the limit in chapt...
