Someone twists a knife in my gut, and I cannot see. I fight against the attack, but I’m only fighting me. Every time I think of him- the way his hair blew in the wind, the color of his eyes, the way his voice rumbled when he said goodbye- I am the cause of my own demise.
Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself...
I like writing poetry. Not all of it is going to be a historical epic or an ode to something. These are like little glimpses of the subway in my mind; my train of thought isn't always artsy or symbolic or deep or meaningful, but I like to think that art takes ordinary things and makes people see a sort of beauty in them. So, look around- I've been doing this for a while. Enjoy ♥
1 comment:
OMG! This one is like my favorite now! I <3 it!
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