Knuckles white... I held on As long as I could Sweaty palms Gripping the corpse Of our love As if I could squeeze Life back into it. I tried my best. Failed. Then let go.
Hope is out on another untimely vacation Causing a slight hesitation upon recognition 'Cause this isn't the first occasion Even when only halfway paying attention I know what's comin', Probably should have run For all the good that ever done Keep an eye on the horizon, just south of the setting sun You'll hear the invasion of a negative persuasion Long before they let you see 'em And you'll notice, there's no record of a single recorded win From all the way back since I don't know when And all I can confirm is that there's never been
Poetry has to rhyme No it doesn’t That lie is just a crime It’s meant to fixate To inflate The curious mind The literate kind Words in a verse The gold in the purse Of a creative person
Poetry has to rhyme No it doesn’t Your wrong this time Its meant to uplift To drift Into a person thoughts A charm of sorts Letters in a line All beautiful and fine To read everyday
In the silence, I find every broken piece of myself Their sharp edges cut me until I bleed Forcing me to drop them to the floor- The pain too much to bear. Perhaps it is not worth it To repair the shattered remains of my past. The pieces on the floor Taunt me to try again.
The silence here is deafening, And still I do not whisper for aid.