You sit in your chair
a record plays in the background
and I know what you're thinking.
You are silent, but your body is screaming.
Your hands folded across your chest,
chin tilted downward.
Your eyes don't meet mine,
but I can see the storm within them.
Your mind is a battlefield
where weapons clash and martyrs fall
you convince yourself
that you are alone
even though I am close enough to touch you.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
You sit in your chair
a record plays in the background
and I know what you're thinking.
You are silent, but your body is screaming.
Your hands folded across your chest,
chin tilted downward.
Your eyes don't meet mine,
but I can see the storm within them.
Your mind is a battlefield
where weapons clash and martyrs fall
you convince yourself
that you are alone
even though I am close enough to touch you.
Request permission to use this poem