I am a living skeleton;
surviving this endless nightmare of reality
I have to wake myself up
from the numbness of mind
there is no emotion in me,
there is only a mind—it is empty
being forced to live this life is hell,
I would take away this soul to sell.
I am a living skeleton;
walking in a dead body
with no purpose to live on
I am only a scrap of burned paper,
they ignore me as ashes in the corner.
I am a beating heart with burden;
seeking help in trench
while choking underwater
I could not see any further,
I don't have any reason to live for another.
I am a decaying brain;
walking in the dessert
flown by the wind,
I see myself as a dirt
with the thoughts of a sin.
YOU ARE READING
Dusty Ink.
PoetryThis is where my soul hides. It is a book full of words that combines into an art. My only runaway mess of reality. It is a pack of love, heartbreak, and the dark side of me put into one. So, here I scream my thoughts, will you feel my scars?
