This Poetry

This poetry

This flow-etry

At four pm on a Thursday

The happy hour

Soon becomes sour

And the words do not come

Stemming from my memories

The past cannot escape before me

Alone I stand, divided I am

For none can understand me

The darkness surrounding me

There's a light up ahead;

but it's blurry

Alone I traverse this great divide

Alone releasing the pain inside

My thoughts clearly scattered to the wind