A bit scared,
a bit broken,
a big regret,
of what's spoken.
It's a weight, heavier than my spine.
But it's mine.
There's a clock,
ticking all the time.
Every second I breathe,
feels like a crime.
That every second from nine to nine,
it's mine.
The wall,
it's faded shades,
the dust and webs,
from decades,
never reflected a positive shine.
B'cause it's mine.
The saw me,
they saw my hand.
They said my stars,
had a lot of scars.
That every single palm line,
it's mine.
The water's so deep,
I try to flee.
Black is all I see.
It's mud or blood I can't define.
But it's mine.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
