The pain was too intense the very first day.
I felt nothing else,
nothing but the stinging pain.
I tasted nothing but my own salty tears.
And my vision became blurred
I felt blind.
The second day, I was sore,
A broken mess of shattered dreams and lies.
I fell in a pit where I could not reach out to others.
I broke before my very own eyes,
a pitiful sight.
The third day, the pain left.
I felt numb, like my heart stopped working.
The darkness embraced me again,
bringing little comfort.
The fourth day, I healed just a little,
as every tear of mine,
rushed out of my eyes,
I was left with an ache that tore my heart apart,
I felt each tear.
The fifth day, I felt raw.
I hated every inch of myself.
My thoughts ran after each other,
like a very violent train.
Nauseous, each wound of mine opened.
My mind brought fresh pain,
a new kind.
I dreamed about nothing but darkness and pain,
Once sweet dreams now became nightmares,
and I couldn't escape.
The sixth day, I tried to shut my mind,
but failed, hopeless.
I tasted pain even on my lips, that trembled.
And felt too many tears leak from my eyes.
The seventh day, I felt hope,
so little that it made me cry,
rivers of tears rushing out of my eyes.
My heart still ached, but a little less.
I felt sore, but somehow, that hope,
it made me smile.
And somehow, the pain left,
and I thought, "I can be okay."
YOU ARE READING
The Ink Spilling From My Pen ✔
Poetry* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ink that spilled out of my pen formed these poetry. * ** * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * ** * ** ** *** ** * * ** * * ** A random poetry collection that spill...
