Sad Labels:
dark poems
,
dark poetry
,
frailties
,
introspect
,
sad poems
,
sad poetry
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| alcoholicpoet.com |
gentle is the storm as it asks our name. zippers on the face of time. let us out of our skins. all of our choices petulant wagers.
the panic has its throne. a curious evolution. of misplaced loyalties.
we are the scratches on time's wrists. where all the old blood collects.
the scabs on love's lips. that make it sting.
precariously balancing on the cantilever of trust. earnest strangers in familiar conceits.
all of our windows more than gracious as we look inside to see.
the catastrophe of empty rooms that we've accumulated.
no stairs go deep enough to reach. how low we've sunk.
no locked doors are strong enough.
all of our windows more than gracious as we look inside to see.
the catastrophe of empty rooms that we've accumulated.
no stairs go deep enough to reach. how low we've sunk.
no locked doors are strong enough.
to keep us from hurting each other.
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