I constantly feel as if I am being ripped apart.
A mess of a person, shaping myself up just to melt back to my original form.
Only thinking in completely logical or illogical statements, and observing life in only darkness or light.
When others feel, it's brief and fleeting.
But when I feel? It's irrevocably consuming; constituting adamant behaviors that of which really only harm me in the end.
I'll admit it to be so, but not to anyone of significance.
Just in case anyone else thinks of me as I do.
YOU ARE READING
Collected Poems: Vol. I
PoetryThis is the debut collection of poems by poet Sasha Lynn Wallace. Volume I explores and dissects their personal experiences regarding: love, joy, spirituality, heartbreak, & trauma. Poems from 2018-2023
