Your intentions were never clear. One day you're a stranger, the next day you'd act like a lost puppy begging for affection.
You speak of tragedies then you'd sugar-coat every word you'd say. You'd spit out poetry, and love, and promises, and wishes, and music, and death.
You're confused, and lost, and a bit cracked and torn apart. You spill everything that you are into the void and shudder at the thought of being alone.
You talk about your life and your ambitions but shut down people who try to be part of it.
You read aloud the chapters and verses you've created with your soul.
But your intentions would always be hanging. Lost, and buried, and covered, and undiscussed.
But another soul is curious enough to know what they are. To understand what they were. Or if those words were the only ones you know. I want to know. I need to know.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
