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A poem dedicated to those that worry they've lost the beauty in themselves, or what was beautiful about themselves
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A meditation on what it means to worry, and why it can be silly to worry when our reality is constantly in a turbulent state of change.
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about being a poet
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... Because you're a poet! And a poet is a pretty good thing to be, all things considered.
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![Modern Saints [Relinquish]](https://writerscafe.s3.amazonaws.com/stories/thumbs/5d67c0a582e945f5d3223a7ba9875fab.jpg) |
Do not open... no, seriously, don't! Go read something else you nosy miscreant!
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The red of your fingernailspulsates in the demonic winter skyEvery single colour an affrontnow you're not hereWhy'd I have to be the sort to take note..
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Your face, unpleasant -resembling, as it does, the bubbles brewingin a witch's cauldronYour suit, likeyou've made the journey fromdoctor, to salesman,..
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Disclaimer:
This poem contains references to self harm; it is partly inspired by the work of Hanya Yanagihara
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...
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I miss that magical feeling of reading a lineand being demolished by it. I want to implode -words on a page, the carefully placed dynamiteof my decima..
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