Tue, 11/25/2014 - 22:16 -- Herma


The crevices of my soul

Are left untouched by the purest of men.

They do not craft me, I craft myself.

A pretty picture I paint to the world,

Mold myself into Mona Lisa and leave them all guessing.


What a cruel person I am.

I hide myself deep inside.

Like the many forms of a goddess

The truth would burn their eyes.


What a beautiful world I live in.

Too bad I am the beast that wanders on it.


Hopeless and scared,

With arrogance wrapped around my skin like bliss.


Nod and smile at oblivious humans

That think I have it all down to a theory.

Anger rages through my body

But innocence is the mascara on my eyes

And the floral dress on my flimsy body.


Never do they see,

The girl that talks to the walls.

The girl that jealousy consumes.

Nor do they feel,

The tears that splatter down my porcelain skin.

The beat of my broken heart.

When it all falls apart.


It’s easier to cover up the wound than to leave it open.
Because every time it bleeds, it reminds the person of who they really are.

People take me in and read only the cover,

Never to turn the dusted pages of my soul.  

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