oddly strange,
that i feel so fine,
seeing your pretty face frustrated,
cause i can't grant you forgiveness,
as if you never commit the same mistakes–
again and again.
twenty-year old’s aren’t little kids,
but i can't help to swear you out of immaturity,
and even they'll try to convince me that it’s been three years,
they can't simply erase the scars they made,
and how it adds weights to my anxiety.
it’s much better,
if we will never meet our roads again,
cause i've been through some shit and emotional pain–
a scar that can't be simply wash off in a single day.
so, don't ask me why,
cause if you really meant it–
you've already made it the other day,
but years have passed and so we are,
what we are before is a memory framed in the past.
YOU ARE READING
repetition
Poetrya love letter to the cliches and stereotypes of modern poetry - repetition.
