Days upon days of whirling thoughts, old pain and questions of why.
As quickly as the wound opens, it begins to close.
Slowly, slowly slowly.
I cut my nails and become myself.
Slowly, slowly, slowly.
Until my nails grow out, I become a child for an instant, and the scab drops to the floor.
Repeat.
2 comments:
I like your poem.
Thanks buddy.
It wasn't hard to tell I was in a reflecting mood eh? Haha.
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