There was girl with a broken heart,
Underneath the oak tree she waited.
It was since her wrists saw the art,
That the world always hated.
It was a pretty painting,
Red and blades and hate.
What was once a dream failing,
Now seemed to be left at fate.
The girl used to feel love,
Sad and lonely, now forgotten.
Just another wandering dove,
Once a ripe heart; now rotten.
Fading away to nothingness,
Running from reality.
She was all but helpless,
You see, no one lives for eternity.
There was a girl with a broken heart,
Buried under the oak tree.
She couldn't stand being apart,
Because, you know, all she wanted was to be free.
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Ya'll should check out my new work. It's called ' c l o s e | enough'
Thank you!
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
