In life love matters most to those thirsty for the blood of those wronged. When my brothers look at my heart and claim hate, am I harmed? When I investigate theirs and see hate, do I love? Misunderstanding the core of our problems. Blows thrown over words we couldn't understand. I suppose I'm nothing more than I lie. I suppose love does not exist. Still, I'll give to you of me. Still, I'll hold you as my own. Still, I will try.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Lackluster writing...bad writer.
PoesíaConfessional poems. These are how I feel about myself and the things around me. These poems mean a lot to me. I may not be a good writer but I wanted at least anonymously to share them.
