Poetry

Acerbic reflections on past hurts

Raised in destitution,
Desolate dark resolutions,
High enough to bend the air,
Break away, rip and tear.
 
For me it always seeks forever,
Circumventing moments,
Cutting like the cold,
Can feel myself get old.
 
And what is life?
It cuts like a knife. 
Want to make the world a wife.
Want to be free again.
 
When speak you my name,
You spoke it soft and said it quiet,
Like you wanted to be kind,
The tongue caressed the mind.
 
My soul is beaten down,
It’s bruised and it is worth so little,
We fight but its alright,
Make it through another night.
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