The empty pages stare back at me,
waiting for me to spill the ink,
waiting for the words to bleed right out of me.
But I've been bled dry.
There's nothing that I can offer that piece of paper anymore.
Is it because I no longer feel deep enough for my words to hold their meaning?
Or is it because my words are just like me; fragile?
So brittle that they lose their meaning before they find their way to the paper that awaits their arrival.
Or maybe I'm not brave enough,
to translate my soul into a written form,
a form that's easier to understand?
A form that would finally clarify
the chase that happens in my head.
Because maybe if I carefully orchestrated the wild mess that flows inside of me,
I'd finally be able to understand me.
YOU ARE READING
Behind Her Eyes: A Collection of Poetry.
PoesíaHere are my words, thoughts, and most importantly, all the feelings I burry. I've finally gathered the courage to share them, and to share a part of me. Here are the thoughts that visit me through the night put into words; of all there is to fee...
