She's happy.
Her eyes are as bright as
Sunrise on the morning dew so
You can't see the sorrow
They hide.
Her voice is as gentle as
A new mother's careful touch so
You can't hear the pain
She cries at night.
Her heart is as generous as
A dying man's final wish so
You can't tell it's hand stitched back together
With threads of disappointment.
She's happy...
But only so you can't see
That all she really is
Is numb.
YOU ARE READING
aching lungs
PoetryPoetry has always been a beacon of light leading me through the dark abyss I sometimes find myself in. When the waves crash over my head, when I am being pulled to the bottomless expanses of my mind, these words wrapped around me and pulled me to th...
