The one person you want to read your stories
And ponder upon your fury ,doesn't even know you exist.
Why do I dive face first into the social swimming pool only too look like a fool. The stories I tell my heart Is draining like a well. You wouldn't care if I fell, fell face first into the antisocial well. I could tell someone about my sorrow only for them to feel borrowed. A borrowed heart is something earned not bought. For I lay here in misery with my broken heart.
Copyright © Cheri Larsson | Year Posted 2018
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