The words accumulate like rainwater on street corners
Upon the rustling papers.
The brushed and burnt memories
Get printed on the pages of the blue diary.
The dead words clog in the damp soil;
In the silence and smell of death.
Happiness didn't come all way along
ever.
Maybe, seeking happiness until we collide—
With the dark burning door
is what we call life.
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A/N: This is written from the perspective of an individual who hopes for things that would never come. It's not intended to hurt anyone's opinions. Apologies if it does. Kindly vote and tell me what you think of this! :)
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the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
