i once held feathers of a dove
I placed it in ink, bleeding with feelings
Which scared the thug, writing about the butterflies which turned to bugs alone on the rugs, in beating pain from my chest, i write in the wind, a cold state down feeling depressed, creating more for those who felt less "than themselves" wearing that scar,living in memories of a forgotten war,for those wanting to be near though fear held them far separated by flaws,not hating other's for what they are but learning to accept all,braking down all walls, holding brothers in arms for a chance of light though being nice might seem like a big sacrifice, i think of days where happiness felt right,pulling me back to reality,letting go of things which felt like opportunity,creating depressions and things killing me deep inside "i knew giving up wasn't an option" so i made acceptance my friend as i continue to believe that time will heal my broken self...
©undecided
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