These hands have bleed a thousand times,
The fists you use to fight it all have battered and bruised.
This hands I can not use.
So maybe this isn't a dance with life,
Maybe it's a fight.
Yet I've found though enemies strong have been seen
the hardest to fight looks exactly like me.
I can't seem to swing fast enough nor dodge her,
She hits harder than she takes.
YOU ARE READING
Salvaged Soul
Poetry"The mind is a beautiful servant but a dangerous master" It said "so i must then let it serve my soul" I whispered A salvaged soul is not new, it is old. It has lost and is still losing but is no longer who it was when it first broke. To be one step...
