Tarnished images of the realms sink in,
Thoughts flee of what it had never really been.
Mind’s still learning but memories are aching;
Thy psyche constantly breaking.
For your own good, thee says, you'll grow;
From that only gifted millions of mental scars to never show—-
Never showcase those wounds inflicted on thy soul,
The broken essence burdened with an abyssal hole.
‘For your own good’ were the words spoken,
Scars and gashes left by bitter blade the token.
Try to forget, but even then, the visions creep back in;
Still ever after ignoring the marks on thy skin.
Bottle it in, still it eventually erupts from within;
Though, thee must wonder if it's time for reality to really set in.
YOU ARE READING
Shiver
Poetryꜱʜɪᴠ·ᴇʀ /ˈꜱʜɪᴠƏʀ/ ᴠᴇʀʙ (ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴏʀ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ) ꜱʜᴀᴋᴇ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟʟᴀʙʟʏ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ꜰʀɪɢʜᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴇxᴄɪᴛᴇᴅ. -- Short stories and poetry that heavily revolve around grief, death, and mental illness.
