How delicate the mind—
turbulent.
Devoid of warmth; devoid of comfort.
How cruel the nights have become.
The churning of my stomach grows
as I lie against callous tile.
My skull to burst as I
am erratic in thought—each one
burning me still.
They blur my throat for I grasp for air.
_I cannot reach it._
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 1:49 AM UTC
How delicate the mind—
turbulent.
Devoid of warmth; devoid of comfort.
How cruel the nights have become.
The churning of my stomach grows
as I lie against callous tile.
My skull to burst as I
am erratic in thought—each one
burning me still.
They blur my throat for I grasp for air.
_I cannot reach it._
Hello again, Hello Poetry. It's been a year, but I am back :)
