Our pasts
are like the
soft blankets
bought by well
intentioned mothers.
They never
quite last
the way
they were
meant to.
Sometimes,
they were the
product of
obviously false
advertising.
They become
threadbare
from constant
use and
reminiscing.
If only we
pulled them
apart in our hands,
we'd see the residue
left after the mess.
YOU ARE READING
Once, We Lived | Poetry Collection Completed
PoetryA collection of poetry from the high-school years of an semi-angsty teen with too much time on her hands. This is an exploration of the different facets of life and the perceptions of a teen of the 2010s with a knack for words. Warning: contains con...
