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woolgather
Poems
Jun 2018
Senseless
The irony of the doubt
Of the one that came out of my mouth
Is that this head won't make flowers out of words
Or gardens out of stanzas;
That when these hands write or type
None would be so quite the hype,
That words would be just words:
They are, yes, but the irony is that it still hurts;
When I said I can't make more out of a word,
My head sabotaged me, albeit absurd:
I made flowers out of words
But, out of nowhere, it'd hurt me:
For the thorns of the rose I plucked,
From the garden I thrashed, crocked,
To the truth that the one I plucked the rose for
Would do none but to abhor;
Now I cry, knowing,
What the irony of the doubt would sing;
How I'm bound to fool myself with words,
And hurt by them, soon after;
How this heart would endlessly flutter
Over love that is destined to falter.
I can't write right
Written by
woolgather
23/Non-binary/Philippines
(23/Non-binary/Philippines)
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