the second girl
he gazed upon
without knowing
about our bond
wash it all away
on a stormy night
I said to my head
to see the light
the light peeking
through my thoughts
turned into a mess
to cloud it all
to hear someone
else's story
to see yourself
in their body
to know their shadow
they have to jump over
but since theirs is a story
only I stay lower
watching others achieve
the solutions
to not only their
but also my problems
and they think
badly of my ache
because it's filthy
if it isn't glorified by them
by them who tell
the story as if
the villain is the hero
where it's fine to filth
when someone else
tells your story
you'll change into
either bad or glory
the second girl
her dirt was pretty
if mine got out
I'd get called needy
YOU ARE READING
Talking heart
PoetryTransferring my thoughts in form of poetry. To understand myself, probably, maybe.
