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
