It's like each breath comes with a condition of being alone Love's icy touch leaves me with a numb body, a mind of stone Maybe I'd tolerate the skin, but I hate it when it sinks deep into my bone. The poems can't be written without letting go of every hand I've ever known The evil is buried somewhere, or it would've been a struggle to switch the tone Why does peace come to me at the price of giving up everything I own? The wound becomes fresh every time the scar is shown Broken heart, moist eye, for sins such as this, I can never atone You can feel me sinking daggers into your flesh, then tell me how you still condone?
The Poet's Path: A Blog about Books, Poetry, and the Journey of Self-Discovery