Reality molds itself to the clay of my dreams leaving an indentation of things that could never be and have never not been . I try to forget the sins, forget how I feel in my skin how I can never scrub of the flesh of me or the thought that it was him. Direction is an illusion confusion is the reality of situation. Pretty smiles hide sickly frowns, hide death glares, hide the extreme downs. I'm sorry there isn't enough makeup to hide the pain in my eyes or the bruises on my thighs or the stupid fucking tears, I CANT HELP BUT CRY! Weakness and me never got along like a song without melody, I'm much like a pothead without a bong, not finding its purpose nor its path only left knowing you've done wrong
Get AI Feedback on your poem
Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
If You Need Support
If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741