To the poet who died inside of me, where do I begin? Silence I believe was the cause of your demise now I sit by your graveside paying for my sins.
To the poet who died inside of me I remember how I committed the crime.
I am guilty of homicide and I deserve to pay for my crime.
To poet who died of me, I put a pillow over your head and though you struggled for your breathe my will to be silent
Overpowered your words.
To the poet who died inside of me, this is the end of the road, for I now regret hiding my flair for writing for the sake of people's speech.
To the poet who died inside of me, I wish there was a second chance, if I could do this over I shall spare you.
To the poet who lived inside of me mind is jammed with words. Some are beginning to overflow.
Help me! I am drowning in the haemorrhage of my own words.
ROSES OR THORNS?
I sit upon my throne of pain,
to my left and right are precious stones of gold, silver and diamond sparkling challenges in my direction.
My crown of agony sits majestically on my head.
I wear it with pride. For what makes a queen, roses or thorns?
Hello everyone, how did you enjoy this piece? I will like to read about it in the comments section. Thank you so much for reading.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
A DOSSIER OF WORDS
PoesíaChoice words sewn together to create astonishing pieces, they describe feelings, situations, nature and experiences. Dear readers, and this is a WIP, please bear with me. I edit as I write. Book cover credit: Desygner thank you for a great book cov...
