Hello everyone,
I try to make a poem,
Out of something short and sweet.
But I want to thank all of you for
your kindness and generosity.

Everyone here, has emotions that
vary from big and small...
but all the same goes,
we are unique
and that's what brings
us together as a
wholesome community.

Our lives walk on different paths,
and each time the days go past,
we come on here to share our feels,
to help us spread emotions that cannot be felt.
So ever so kind, thoughtful and emotionally heard...
as I Thank You all
to take your time
to read ones poem,
show's the true hearts
of another poet...or simply
you are here to read...
so I thank you for your
greetings and salutations
as we continue to speak.

this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain, i have knocked on them way too many times, my knuckles can barely remember a period without the dull aching from the splinter — they can barely remember the stray bits of softness left here and there by the girl i used to be. still, knocking hasn't saved me from the insidious caving in of these humid walls. knocking remains an unanswered gesture and i have stopped asking questions. i can only sit, small and in bewilderment of my stagnation.

this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain and maybe my skin will soon be drenched enough to give in and fall, like a giant scab of a wound long healed. i am my own wound, breathing, quiet and careful in its self-inflicted state. this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting and still, the veins in my wrists are mine to scar while waiting for the calm after the rain. i am the tree bark in a state of decay. i am a storm sewn shut like a bitter memory, like a piece of bloated flesh. god, all this cold is foreboding. this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain and i hope my skin weathers and erodes, like worn ***** soil, just in time for sunlight to look at me — just long enough for me to look back and feel its pity — its kindness — its warmth.

indeed there is a state of calm in an eroded consciousness. it's the closest thing to daybreak. it's the closest thing to peace.

I'm tired of being celebrated for surviving traumas I didn't deserve in the first place. I want to drive and drive and drive away until I no longer feel the sunlight digging its nails on my bruised legs, until I fall to my knees and melt in the shadows, and all traces of struggling are swallowed whole by the ground. I long for the quiet: a Brontë girl dying before the ending. I long to no longer be visible. I long to be long gone.