The stars are shining brightly tonight, I inhale the poison in the form of an enlightened stick, between a mixture of happy death chemicals as I sip my vodka by the moon and sit on the chair where the syrup on my arms becomes the painting on my canvas, and the stories in my brain have become more absent.
I can hardly remember anything old, all the memories that I have yet to unfold, they remain untold but the memories from before have become a weight holding me down from a place of deep water and entangled seaweed that ties around my ankle, holding me.
But no, I will not give in.
The syrup on my arms has become a crimson shade of red wine, that is kept in a glass taller then myself and held deep underground. An old me is buried, she's buried so deep but the new me has just arisen from her sleep, and she's not going to take an easy route out, she's about to change the world, no one should feel how she felt.
The thorns will cut, scrape and the glass will impel but the skin will heal and the scabs will show that scars are an everlasting sign, of a certain glow that no one can manifest, they can only envy. I'll use that glow to defeat the enemy of negative thoughts in broken glasses, that once controlled my life but now hang in masses upon my heavy head, but I can hold my head up high and say, yeah, I fucking survived.
YOU ARE READING
Letters In My Head
PoetryI will write letters in my head laced with blood and tears to create a sense of reality to fight my fears in a world that is broken and bruised, i've been misplaced. Some topics covered in my poems might cause distress so please read at your own ri...
