Still I think of an old habit, that I had once made to inhabit, it developed quick as a rabbit.
With how fast the crimson would flood, with mountain of tissues soaked in blood, as my body is tossed in the mud.
In all honesty I still miss the rush, the gush,
That silent shush.
But I'll keep my word,
Though i might be a flightless bird,
I can still be beautiful even with the scars, is that so absurd?
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 5:57 PM UTC
Still I think of an old habit, that I had once made to inhabit, it developed quick as a rabbit.
With how fast the crimson would flood, with mountain of tissues soaked in blood, as my body is tossed in the mud.
In all honesty I still miss the rush, the gush,
That silent shush.
But I'll keep my word,
Though i might be a flightless bird,
I can still be beautiful even with the scars, is that so absurd?
Request permission to use this poem