I cling onto a pen tightly with a hand filled with cracks from all the hard work I have had to endure, a palm filled with broken dreams, not a damn word prevails, not a damn thought is of interest.
An empty heart, bruised, scarred, dancing around in screams.
Vindictive, vindictive with Earth, yet in seek of a common ground to bond over.
Whatever happened to my ability to create poetry?
Whatever happened to books, along with hearts, and as scars sand our beauty,
We find shelter in poetry,
A saviour, unable to save me, as a pen fails to dance along to the melody brought by my hands, fingers of the ugly, fingers in ignorance of grace, and the universe's yearn to be acknowledged has me running my hands on a newly found baby I have come across,
The inability to walk, makes it more keen, and as it lets out a giggle, all evil crumbles, along with writing, along with poetry, as a baby is what my heart yearns,
However, a baby is something I cannot have and poetry puts an end to my ruins.
