I can't seem to empty out these feelings.
Not completely.
Just when I think I've gotten them all out,
I feel even more anger festering inside me,
threatening to bubble over
and consume what's left.
I thought writing would help,
but this feels
different.
It won't leave me.
It's as if I've been wiping the surface of a wound,
leaving the cause to it's own devices.
YOU ARE READING
22 & Learning Poetry Collection: Curiously Beautiful
PoetryBeing vulnerable is one of the scariest things any human being can do; to unfasten the armor reinforced by a lifetime of difficult lessons, strip down to nothing but the fine curves of one's existence, and bare the scars of the soul in the sincerity...
