What I wanted to say stays soul deep
sometimes, poetry fails the poet.
Muses make the paltry page putrid
before the pen poem's. The
heart holds on to its soulful, sits
shiva so self shatters softly,
sharply bleeding in
broken beating. My mother died.
I cannot feel past all the hurt
I have already felt. Self, soul,
all, is bereft beyond expression.
I am loudly silencing soul's
sharply screaming, still, I hear it too loudly.
at 03:59
- CountVlad, buzzielizzy, Fionacatherine, Krisargent and sheeza like this
