I'm mysterious, people tell me. They assume that my silence is a product of complexity.
I'm cold, people say. They think I'm untouchable from excessive freezing.
I'm unique, people profess. They're convinced I'm unlike any other.
I'm doomed, they decide. They don't wait to see me grow.
YOU ARE READING
The Book of Healing
PoetryShe's not okay, but writing it down helps. - Part I: It's time to rip off the band-aid. Poems: slam, traditional, free-verse. The first twenty are not up to par with the others, but this is an ongoing journey so I feel the need to include them...
