And she spoke.
With a quivering voice,
She did what she had to do.
For once, maybe twice,
She listened intently to the gentle beating of her heart.
It taught her to laugh while it ached,
Breathe while it suffocated,
And listen while it was deaf.
Her heart flooded her intentions with goodbyes,
And so she silenced her hellos.
The girl with a broken smile she thought she knew so well,
Had a 11-year-old with scar tissues and tear–stained pillows.
She began to listen meticulously to her heart's footsteps,
As it unlocked a room containing albums of pictures with the 11–year–old she hid,
Behind poems and smiles.
Apparently that 11–year–old has a voice of her own,
And so she spoke about the shadows and the flickering lights,
The knives and cries,
The abuse and the abuser,
All in the absence of a pause, a semicolon or a smile.
Her heart gave her pain a voice.
-She listened -
YOU ARE READING
Her roses were blue
PoetryHey❤...Im a 17-year-old aspiring poet and I hope every single one of you would be able to resonate with the poems in this book. It would really mean a tonne to me if it does. Feel free to leave a comment n do vote... Thank you n lots of love❤❤❤. BTW...
