The writer:
The book in front of me,
Was written by someone other than myself,
After many months of beating myself down,
I’m attempting to gain back my health.
Living as little more than a skeleton,
Doesn’t deserve to be considered as a life,
Along with a mind blowing addiction,
I have long since existed at the hands of a knife.
Each chapter was written,
by someone unfamiliar to me,
each word was more than I knew how to express,
Despite being unfamiliar, the writer carried an aura of someone I used to be.
I was unable to see,
The beauty of the world before my eyes,
Blind to all possible opportunities,
My mind was wrapped with a pain I quickly began to despise.
Gathering the pen,
Within my still fragile fingers,
I feel myself reconnect with my mind,
Despite the shadow that lingers.
Although it is still a war,
it’s a war in which I’m prepared to be its only fighter,
At last this is my story,
And I am finally its one and only writer.
YOU ARE READING
The Pure, Simple, Truth.
PoetryLife isn't always the best thing. But we only get one. So here I am, making the most of it, trying my best to get everything i feel down into words so that i don't have to dwell on those feelings and thoughts anymore. My latest collection of poems...
