Poetry
She buries herself beneath her scars.
Just letting herself bleed away.
The footprints practically walk themselves acrossed her.
She's afraid.
She's too weak to pull away.
Knuckles white from holding on.
She's powerless.
She's pale, with menacing circles beneath her eyes.
The nightmares fight their way in.
She's tired.
Her tears fall down like rain, she begs for him to take them away.
She's alone.
The feeling practically spell themselves out for you.
Publishing a book and I'm the author.
It's been sold over a million times, the books ragged and torn.
Ripped from the shelves, entries missing, blanks to be filled,
It's a mystery...
The vulgar words are forced into the cravacies of my mind.
Being repeated numerous times, their meaning slowly breaks me.
I crumble,
lowering to my knees,
I ma now crawling.
The skin has slowly risen, boiling form the haet that has been flamed beneath it.
It itches, and is irritated. Bruises slowly form,
producing monsterious colours.
My hand fits perfectally in yours and our eyes always seem to lock.
You've heard the deepest thoughts that everyone else seems deafened by.
I could drown in every word you've said.
Our pictures, their worth a thousand words, that I only want whispered by you.
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