Bitter Sweet Ways
Poem of surreal proportions.
We all know left and right.
North and south.
Bitter sweet are the ways we live life.
We lie to ourselves that we are fine.
Even when the truth is to dark for those eyes.
The pain in his eyes.
The sadness he tries to hide.
He lies to himself, thinking that's right.
He thinks it's okay to say these bitter sweet things.
But I know he isn't okay.
I know nothing will ever be right in his brain.
You say move on.
You say it as if it's easy.
Emotional trauma is like the deepest ocean clawing at the throat to devour you.
Physical trauma keeps you laying around.
The day physcial trauma doesn't keep you laying around, will emotional trauma stop choking me whole.
About the Creator
Louise Blake-Michael (Risen Phoenix)
LouLou maintains a boundary between her professional endeavors and personal life. She wears many hats as an author, blogger, and content creator. In various projects, each one a testament to her dedication and passion for storytelling.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Louise Blake-Michael (Risen Phoenix) and writers in Poets and other communities.
His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress7 days ago in Poets
Confessions of an Empath
The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicole5 days ago in Confessions
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.