In its most conventional form.
All the chaos is buried deep.
Bolted up, with a locked door.
Organised perfectly.
And it's only you,
Who holds the key.
It's the smile,
That doesn't quite reach your eyes.
It's the perfect complexion,
But held just underneath the surface
Is your demise.
It's the firm handshake
And voice full of humour,
That hides away the chaos,
The hate, the misery,
Eating away at your soul,
Like a tumour.
Art is organised chaos.
They see your beauty.
Not everything you've lost.
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The Night Sky is in Her Veins
Poetry// s o n d e r \\ - "the realisation that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own" Life can be dark, cold and lonely. Feeling betrayed, misunderstood, chewed up and spat out by the world, its when I get sonder, that I...
