Ripped

Poetry, Writing

I am a rose, my petals fall
Not due to the seasons
But inescapable time
Passing by like hourglass sand
Through dry fingers
Still walking, all broken
The thoughts in my mind
A heavy weight, crushing me
I am a ripped bag, I fall apart
And cry, and cry and cry

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Bottled Up

Poetry

It takes too long to make me laugh
I’m a window, tightly shut
Emotions poured into bottles
Like distilled rum
Reserved only for me to taste and devour
The rest are having sober days
From feeling something other
Than their own familiar pain