The inner turmoil keeps on nagging,
keeps on fidgeting,
keeps on finding rhyme and reason when there is no poem.
It slithers under the skin,
sickly sweet with torture.
I say: Another misplaced worry.
You say: That's okay.
Dissolving my tears in your vast ocean.
'Misaligned', I state,
'Perfectly', you retaliate.
Poetry and misery,
forming our never-ending Melody.
Jan 24
Jan 24, 2026 at 6:22 AM UTC
It bloomed so high and bright
that there was no rival
Until it realised, regardless of sunshine,
winter is not the right season for roses...
Jan 24
Jan 24, 2026 at 6:21 AM UTC