You strike me with your fist and beat me with harsh words.
I put on a face and hide the bruises —
but why is it that you’re the one staring at the ground.
You pointed the gun at my direction…and pulled the trigger.
It was too late then, you realized.
It was not me laughing in front of the mirror but the devil inside your head.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Powered by

Up ↑

Backpack Reflections


Where travel and poetry intertwine.

Little Fears

Tales of whimsy, humor and courgettes

%d bloggers like this: