The glass was cracked,
And little by little everyday,
It cracked even more,
But never turned to pieces,
For it knew,
That thunderstorm would destroy it,
And kept holding,
In the wait of the breeze,
To cherish it's flaws.

“When” anger runs through me like a wildfire.

I have these Twisted thoughts come into my mind making me wonder if I'm rotten to the Core.

“Because” suddenly I'm not the nice girl from next door.

I'm a monster in a cage and that cage is called my skin and I'm itching to get out and to play with your mind as Revenge. Poem by Shelby Kathleen Nightingale