It's the dark that makes us guilty,
bleeding into the light that defines figures
and sucking away the marrow of bravery
until only the trails remain in broken films.
Emotions that were tethered into place
burst their tight meticulous seams
with the silence of wistfulness
or the sorrow of cacophony.
And we find that nothing is as it should be,
missing the abundant colors we crave
or the mesh of sound that are comfort,
and we are left with the shadows of visions.
Sometimes, when our eyes shut,
we see everything we wish we never saw,
hear everything we wish we never heard,
until they drown out our breaths.
My grandfather with his calloused hands
once said that the nights you cannot sleep
are born of hellfire. It's the last of what he
believes, after his humid fearful nights.
All we can do is lay in the quiet
with the night wrapping its gaunt hands
around our frozen hearts,
eyes closed in the illusion of peace.
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...
