It is hard,
To let you go.
But what do I do,
When my happiness,
Depends,
On the very matter?
Should I choose what's left,
Of what I once had,
Over everything,
That I've worked for,
For never-ending years?
Should I make,
A new mistake,
But also,
Carry,
The thought,
That one day,
Very soon,
I'll regret it?
Whatever choice,
I choose today,
You'll still blame me,
For it.
And it hurts,
To be blamed,
When I'm still,
Hurting.
YOU ARE READING
The Ink Spilling From My Pen ✔
Şiir* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ink that spilled out of my pen formed these poetry. * ** * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * ** * ** ** *** ** * * ** * * ** A random poetry collection that spill...
