Life is like writting with a pencil
It takes time to learn how to control it...
How does it feel to be loved?
When you’re always being shoved...
I wish I could see inside your mind
To know why you left me behind...
The November skies have lost their hue,
foetus like, I lie numb, mourning you...
We were just kids then
No one knew there’d be a divide...
I woke up with a sinking feeling in my stomach-
I checked my phone but you weren’t there...
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The saddest tears are the driest ones seen in the bravest smile. |
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Don't tell one who writes of grief to rethink their "I" statements. When you know they had tears on their hands as they wrote, don't say the poem could be better. You might as well say their grief could be worse. |
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If someone shares a poem with you that is meant to help close an open wound, they don't want your opinion. They want your hand on their shoulder, gripping it tight. |