i am one hundred and fifty pounds
but that doesn't count the time i scraped my knees and elbows up, sticking it to the man
or the time i was skating with friends and twisted my knee the wrong way
or the time i had to fight for myself resulting in bloody bruised knuckles and bruised ribs
it doesn't count the times my body stood up for me
it doesn't count the times i hurt it because i wanted to feel something
all it counts is pounds
and that's an awful thing to be caught up on
the body is just the holder
not the being
YOU ARE READING
Whispers of the Wounded
Poetry//Poetry written by the pained// I keep thinking That if I keep whispering These terrible thoughts to this wind Maybe I'd see the meaning in something again //Cover by the amazing @anixkuh//
