Worn out.
A pair of ragged shoes flashes toes as the skin bruise from rocks that shifts and cuts; skin breaking.
These wounds would never heal under the condition that shows nothing but a story.
Stories carry on the fine print, you call your finger.
And where these fingers carry prints, they are swirls of a storm waiting to brew under the influence of their founder.
There's no one to hear you cry at night as you try to lie to yourself that these aren't tears and that the world is in this dilemma where everything is pretty.
You complain about the bed being ugly, I complain about finding a place.
You cry about not getting what you want, I cry for not having enough money to support lives.
You think you saw the ugliest thing in the world, I see envy eat the innocent and kill them.
These dirty shoes carry prints and underneath all the leather and cloth, there is my story.
Tracing in the lines like a picture book, everything made perfect sense.
I don't belong in these shoes, you do.
YOU ARE READING
Out Of Order
PoetryPerturbed. Anxiety awaits those who can't distinguish between actions or emotions, therefore never implying what she thought was important. Animosity. Apart from her balancing on the tight rope, resentment tipped her over and down she goes. Deep int...
