People read my words from here to next Sunday. Painting in the lines only they see. Defining a meaning only they can define. Placing the sticky label they feel most comfortable with. A smudgy thumb caressing a cold beer bottle of thoughts.
Is it easier to think I wallow in the mire?
My words bleed with my own honesty. Never minding the few that misunderstand & assign pity. From the burnt, crisp edges of my journal’s pages – a glimpse into my inner diary. It echoes a past haunting. It revives a ghost of a girl. It is a death of an old me. It is a birth of the new me. It is a tip-toeing around broken glass.
Is it easier to think I am the one who’s lost?
A shallow reader will always find an excuse to create misperceptions. And that’s all okay. I’m going to continue to…
View original post 120 more words