This melancholy
Tolerable as it seems
A serrated knife
The first of its kind
To dig trenches in my skin
From another time
There were lies like ink
Puncturing wounds like needles
A false confidence
Swimming from my ears
Were the tales of confusion
Fusing with my veins
But there was never a
Sure enough consolation
That it wasn't real.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: September 3rd, 2026 21:50
- Comment from author about the poem: Grasping my inner turmoil
- Category: Spiritual
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments1
There are elements of this poem that feel like deja vu. Nicely written
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