I crave her caress. Desire her love.
I am sober, and that’s okay.
My scars are like the stars. Too many to count.
Some call them poems, but for me, they are all, self portraits.
Nightshade is beautiful. But it's poison. Just like the boy who broke your heart.*Edited*
for when your words come out all knotted
Some sad days come, and I start to feel numb, sick to my stomach, at the state of affairs.
Two young men off to war. One is my husband's grandfather. The other.....
For the prompt 'noble'.
Is this art? These words I put together.
I always share my scars with you, so that you do not feel it too.
The child was small and he was sweet. Little legs took him down the street.
There's a desire to cut. A despair about death.
The man wandered from place to place. A lost soul.
Where did my home go? I cannot find it anywhere.
The cat knows when I’m sad.
I would like to cry, but I can’t, and I don't know why.