Violets tear apart;
Like a footprint on the beach
They have disappeared.
My stomach churns and turns and twists
And sweat is sliding down my wrists;
My thoughts engulf me in disdain
And I'm not sure what does remain.
A whisper follows me around
And though I wish I'm sane and sound,
It shrieks with anger and despair,
It shrieks for me apart to tear.
I'm sane. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm sane.
I try to tell that to my brain,
But it developed its own thought
And now my soul is left to rot.
I hyperventilate away
Like a storm in disarray:
Flow in and out, one with my lungs,
My fears engulf me with no bounds.
And though to people I have ties
My soul is left alone and cries.
My violets tear apart once more;
Their gentle petals now feel sore.
Rough grains of sand enter my eyes,
Each one of them takes turns and cries;
My violets don't have time to heal.
My violets — are they even real?
— Violet,
Jan 7th 2023
YOU ARE READING
Manticore
PoetryWith a twist of fate and a shadow of pain And knowing now I have nothing to gain, When emotions burn deep and make me feel sore I have no choice but the Manticore.
