Inside of her is a poem that any paper can't handle

She grabbed a pen
With an ink that as lonely as the darkest hue

She cries but words heals
Words heals her wounds.
Words heals all the pain

But in the end,
She's writing for someone
Who don't care.

She rose from deep within,
Like a phoenix out from the ashes,
Body covered with streaks of wounds,
New and aged with no discrimination.

She sprung life out of none,
Defying of what nature set the rules upon,
She made it a daily routine,
But none should know herself within.

Alone in her nest,
Of where she came,
Her seated heart rests in a battered ribs,
Like a dying bird with a rusted cage.


-HIY

But an apology flies
beyond yourself
to land on those places
you never knew you had hurt;
the thread that holds a scar together;
it speaks the language
only wounds and time know
and offers a sweet prose;
- Sorry.

An apology has wings: a white moth
of truth: it flies from the quicksand grave
of self-importance - beyond you - to land
on those barren places you never knew
you had drained of colour; it spins the thread
that winds a scar tight so that it does not grow
into the volcano
holding its shadow hostage
with the threat of eruption,
rather it must be the outline
of a mountain range of memory,
a reminder that beauty builds
its shape from the ugly things it conquered;
sorry - it offers a sweet prose,
speaks the gentle language
only wounds and time know.

My love your words are knives
Broken arrows impaled in my side

The brontide words
Of a wounded man
Echo still,
Silent
From when they began
In this place.
...
A voice, not his!
But an Injured man anew
Casting the echoes back
To the stranded,
The echoes remain
Repeated in a new voice
From another wounded man
With brontide dreams

For my sixteenth birthday she gave me a locket
Which I keep inside a bag, inside a box, inside of my drawer
All shiny and silver, with initials engraved
Carved on its back the date forever saved
It is resting undisturbed, never worn out
Though I try it out from time to time
Put it on by the mirror and wonder to myself
This is who I would be had things stayed the same
I shake my heavy head, unclasp it from my neck
The last piece of you at last is removed
And yes, I do try to forgive
But to this day that locket stays
Inside of a bag, in a box, at the bottom of my drawer

I don't put it on anymore

You're a papercut
Only when I look at you
Does it hurt

Sometimes I just wanna give in because of the pain consumed by life it self, draining all the little bit of energy that's left in it. Trying to force myself to understand why? Is there a reason why the way we feel when danger comes near unexpectedly without warning; then we're back to piece together the shatter window that was perfectly place before it was brought down without warning. People may never understand what you are going through nor care by giving sympathy and compassion when needed most that god has taught. A wounded heart takes time to heal, expectually when you're alone. But lord him self is there and all I can do is pray and take one day at a time" .

She was the one who waited for solitude
To fall apart
To give a million chances
To everyone who broke her heart
She was the one
Who hid her pain;
Who wanted to heal others' fears
Rather than showing her tears
She was one
Who kept everyone in her prayers
Who loved everyone in spite of all the betrayals
She was the one
Who burnt herself
To cease your darkness
The star who'd fall down
So that you could make a wish
Yet,
She was the one
Always walked upon
She was the one
Who kissed the wounds
And healed every soul
However, she never learnt
How to heal her own