Doors.
Are meant to be locked.
Your head
Is meant to be a object of holding secrets.
Secrets that will never be able to escape through the cracks
Or hinges.
But there is a trick.
Behind this certain door
A girl awaits
Crying and holding herself
Before she meets her fate
Blade in hand and swords at a ready.
She greets death gently taking him by the hand and smiling as she fades into nothing.
Becoming just a whisper
In the wind
And draining from your mind
Becoming nothing but an old memory
Left and forgotten.
YOU ARE READING
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
PoetryAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
