'Feelings' of a 'broken soul'
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People always speak of their bodies as it were a temple, a place of reverence and worship. I've always felt like my body was more of a home than a temple. It's a place to seek more than just shelter.
I am not afraid of the waves of suffering.
All that I am afraid of is carrying on with my selfish ways.
Near my grave you will hear the leaves rustling.
I am not fully dead, most of me will leave my grave.
when it comes down to
then end of the night
you can turn from the truth
let him shout his devotions
and feed you with lies
while you wonder what else could be broken
He says I'm beautiful just by looking at the surface.
He says I'm perfect yet close his eyes to the scars on my body.
He compliments my smile yet fail to see its a disguise for my pain.
Crying doesn't kill, use it to make an ocean and surf and swim and let it wash away your pain.
I despise the wind, it is never there when I need it. Whirling and wonderfully blissful when I was brought into this life. But it is now a violent whirlwind present at the death of my soul. The wind is the source of my strife.
I fell for your in absence of light, but I am just a version of your broken self trying to hold you before my past bleeds out.
Poetry is a form of self-expression
It helps release aggression
It’s a way of telling a story
We are all broken
Searching for something inside us
Something that will help us find the light
The light to eliminate the black
April showers bring May flowers,
But what does March bring to April?
Ghost memories.
Painful memories of things that never happened and never will.
It bring heartbreak fresher and fresher every year.
