My bones break
Under the strain
Of words, fake,
Drowning in rain.
These bones are made of chalk,
Often times too hard to walk.
Despite these times of rage,
Still, I can turn the page
And look into the eyes
Of my own true demise.
These bones, chained
Under the weight
Are left maimed.
No choice, but wait.
These sticks of pale wood break,
Just as the soul can ache.
Under the cracking bones,
Left beneath hollow stones,
Is my own fragile mind.
Feelings I’ve yet to find…
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
My bones break
Under the strain
Of words, fake,
Drowning in rain.
These bones are made of chalk,
Often times too hard to walk.
Despite these times of rage,
Still, I can turn the page
And look into the eyes
Of my own true demise.
These bones, chained
Under the weight
Are left maimed.
No choice, but wait.
These sticks of pale wood break,
Just as the soul can ache.
Under the cracking bones,
Left beneath hollow stones,
Is my own fragile mind.
Feelings I’ve yet to find…
Request permission to use this poem