My vision may be going
but my hope will never leave...
I've given up,
twisted tween rock formations...
Even though the sound of my cries
Can only be heard in my mind...
My life is changing, in what ways I don't know
My heart keeps crying must I not show...
Slipping away
Into something more comfortable...
Red.
Hot as asphalt...
The saddest tears are the driest ones seen in the bravest smile. |
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. |
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. |