Poem 8

I’m flailing I’m sailing into the unknown

I’m drowning but who’s counting i chose the wrong door

I’m craving it’s hailing his touch once more

I’m breaking he’s throwing my love on the floor

I’m concaving the breakage it’s a thousand years old

I’m waiting in vain for a knock on the door

His presence my essence i can’t do it anymore

Sometimes ghosts are better off dead than to keep hurting more

Published by Brigitte af Transmorvica

interests include blogging personal improvement chromotherapy root work and herbal remedies shadow work talking about my past to heal and help others mental illness mental wellness pain spirituality working with our ancestors spell tutorials fashion makeup family dynamics healthy boundries discovering ones own inner beauty homelessness addiction recovery childhood wounds attatchment styles self care creative block art happiness inspiration hope depression movies music traumatic brain injury Joker and Harley Quinn love bipolar borderline coping strategies complex ptsd self harm stuffies pets little space quarentine books relationships ego

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