I think most of my writings stem from hurt, and kept in wrath.
He fuils the fire within my inflamed heart, within my overbearing mind, that inflames my heart even more.
He amplifies those tears in my eyes, till they cannot contain themselves and flood on the papers that contain my anger and frustration, the tears decorate the paper, they embellish the words, they make them come to life, what is anger without sadness to fuel it? And what is sadness without anger to fuel it?
So I can at least thank him for enhancing my writings, that's the only thing I can ever look him in the eyes and thank him for, no smiles, nothing, I wish he would be dead to me, but my writings and my heart always find a way to liven him back.
Overbearing mind? Maybe, but a not so submissive heart.
And the blame falls on him for that.
YOU ARE READING
Rosētum
PoetryHere lie the roses, the roses that are the foundation of my rose garden, pluck them gingerly, here lie the roses that grew full of toxins and purity. Here lies my heart, My Rosetūm. All pictures in the story are mine!
