will always leave its mark;
people have a way of leaving footprints behind
that will endure
though their body have decayed,
the passing is the only thing that stays.
It is late at night and all is asleep,
All but me for sleep does not come easily
To the starving, tortured artist.
It's a layer of defense
Soft and Smooth
It crackles , it can breaks if you have a wound...
A poem is the solace you didn't find in things that are tangible. It's a chip on your shoulder that needs to trickle down word by word, phrase by phrase, until the care has turned to dust, eroded and carefree with the wind.
I shed my skin, callous as it is, hardened by time, and by solitude. I wore it like a badge for so long, thinking it was an exoskeleton that help my soupy insides –