My pen doesn't glimmer like the stars anymore
It bleeds the death of my heart
And weeps for the loss of my innocence.
My writing has ceased in tenderness
Because I write of fairytales no more
But of the cruel state of my soul.
My words don't make me feel better
They make me feel worse
Because they reveal I am bitter.
I didn't know why
My poems had lost their buoyancy
But now I realise
That when writing about your soul
You can't document
More than you've already known.
22:22
17.11.22
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A Diary of Soul (Unedited Version)
PoetryKnow Thyself - Socrates Have you ever felt like a stranger to yourself? Like you're here, but lost? Just another performing mask in a sea of faces? Another wandering being made of dust? • Finding yourself and healing amidst dark moments of life i...
