I feel like I'm playing a song for a congregate not even here.
Like my song is is made of a sermon not allowed to be heard.
They called my love a disaster.
But forgot I live happily ever after.
In the afterlife of abused men, I lay the King of them All.
I've felt better than before, though my bed is wetter.
Not from women, but from tears.
Only a failure in disguise.
I think there's a disconnect between the truth and what's believed.
A large disconnect.
I'm almost sure it's broken me a part many times and forced me into an abusive relationship with myself.
It's not just a song anymore, but a way of life that seems to invade my private sound.
YOU ARE READING
Dreams Over Reality
PoetryA compliation of poems and skits. The skits are no longer being continued. Most poems are about me and the events around me. Read my story This is my story.
