Title Not Chosen Yet
Words whispered on winds so cold,
Left over from days grown old.
Promises made and regrets spoken,
In the end I am broken.
On these winter winds I drift,
Through tears and memories do I sift.
Searching for myself amongst shattered pieces; as brittle as glass.
And I wonder what happened to me,
To the child I once was and the woman I am now?
Now I am downing in the seas of my regrets,
My distress calls grow ever fainter.
As I give up and sink into the cold chaos of my soul...
I am open to suggestions for a title for this poem.
Copyright © Angelita Becerra | Year Posted 2014
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