Pain used to inspire me to write;
words would flow easily substituting
my tears.
Sometimes I feel like Orpheus;
music as a glorious rescuer,
subsequently ejecting
paint on lifeless blank pale skin
with feelings and emotions
words could not possibly express.
Will I make it past eighteen?
Close yet unsure...
hop!
what if I ran off the ledge?
But now, the pain seems likes nothing;
nothing matters!
All I can think of is the dark red ink
bleeding on paper, pushing morosity aside;
leaving a vivid sense of relief in its wake.
Omnipresence wrapped in bandages warms me, yet
nothing matters;
disappearance of primitive tears,
nothing's left
to
spill.
__________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
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┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚❀ ⋆｡˚❃
┊ ┊ ┊ ✿
┊ ┊ ❁⋆
┊ ๑ ┊
✾ ⋆ ┊. ˚.
˚✽ add this book to your library if you enjoyed this poem ;)