Summer
The summer created a chance to stop pretending.
The summer created a true and perfect ending.
I wanted to find the reasons why,
but all my will has dried up and died,
left only to self mutilate and cry.
As the flowers wither away,
I turn to grey.
I lose all hope of anyone finding me.
I cannot stop the decay eating away at me.
Dig the needle into the skin.
The strings hold together,
what would fall out,
in.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
