07 Friday Nov 2014
Posted in Poetry
We never did
Understood each other
When we used our words
To communicate
It was only when
Our bodies said the things
That our words couldn’t
That we finally understood
What each other had to say
And I’ll never run out
Of things to tell you
And will never stop listening
To the things you have to say
07 Friday Nov 2014
I picked up this pen
Hoping to get out
These demons inside
using my blood
A some sort of ink
But no matter
How much I write
How much blood
I seem to spill
The demons never
Run out of ink
Maybe I just need
To put down the pen
And let the demons
Have their way
Of course that’s assuming
That the demons will let me
Wounded Memories 