Sometimes when you move to the corner
whimpering your blue devils out,
keeping your mouth shut to silence,
not knowing that your sorrow is loud;
I can hear you.
And as you stare at your ceiling
when you get lost
whilst your tears drip to your bedsheets
carrying your inner ghosts;
I can see you.
And I'm sorry for just knowing
and not showcasing any verb.
I'm sorry for understanding
yet not becoming the home you deserve.
YOU ARE READING
IDIOMATIC
PoetryI have some things in my mind that I still don't know about. Sometimes they just come out as words through a pen on a page (or in my notes app too). But yeah, if you, by a needle in a hay chance, have read the (deleted)poem book I wrote before this...
