So much terror man
inflicts upon himself
when he is cut by
the pieces of his broken
heart.
For every step he takes,
he steps on a sharp piece
of his heart, that makes him
weak, and slowly wounding
him.
For every wall he touches,
he is struck with terror
of his beating heart.
For every mirror he looks
into, feels like looking
at a piece of an unfinished art.
And can only be painted done
if the love comes and tears
him apart.
For every look into the sky,
he sees the nightingale
carrying the love of his thoughts,
up there, enjoying the wind
right next to the singing bird
that sings a lullaby so fine.
He prays that she gets cursed by
love, so that she feels what he felt
when he was broken apart.
Like a bird with a damaged wing
looking desperately for his mate
to give him a help with his wings.
He cannot touch anyone,
since it now only feels
like he is cut by his own
flesh and blood.
YOU ARE READING
You Who Knows Best
PoetryThis is a series of love poems written by me. "May we meet where the eye can find its rest, And where our hearts beat for each other, even outside of our breasts."
