The tears your eyes could never cry
The scream your voice could never make
The nightmares you could never escape
The mistakes you did wish you could erase
Confrontation to the things that went wrong
The truth
The death of something
Poetry is the lump in the back of your throat,
muffled by society
The thing to make us feel something.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
The tears your eyes could never cry
The scream your voice could never make
The nightmares you could never escape
The mistakes you did wish you could erase
Confrontation to the things that went wrong
The truth
The death of something
Poetry is the lump in the back of your throat,
muffled by society
The thing to make us feel something.
My mom makes me feel like crap effortlessly.
