I do not write about the joys of life
Or the calm and gentle quiet of nature.
There is too much faked joy in the world.
I do not write about love and loss.
I dare not tug at the fragile threads
That bind old wounds in rememberance.
I do not write about worldly truths
And the fallacies that we are often told.
I have forgotten them ― outgrown.
I do not write about my thoughts
For fear that I cannot find the words to fit
And that my mind will soon consume me.
I do not write ― I bleed.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
I do not write about the joys of life
Or the calm and gentle quiet of nature.
There is too much faked joy in the world.
I do not write about love and loss.
I dare not tug at the fragile threads
That bind old wounds in rememberance.
I do not write about worldly truths
And the fallacies that we are often told.
I have forgotten them ― outgrown.
I do not write about my thoughts
For fear that I cannot find the words to fit
And that my mind will soon consume me.
I do not write ― I bleed.
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