General One by mylifespeaksthroughmusic 11/1/2013 written by mylifespeaksthroughmusic 11/1/2013 Pale scars dance across her skin A pale reminder of what had been A drop of silver A drop of red A thousand words running through her head Nobody sees her tears In a world of nothing but fear 2 comments 0 Email Related posts the endless pain of feeling worthless 5/23/2024 weak 5/22/2024 I Wish Someone Could Actually Help Us 5/22/2024 I deleted my entire games library yesterday, I... 5/20/2024 can 2 saddies make it work? 5/20/2024 I wish I could be happy forever. 5/19/2024 I’m Sure I’ll Fall Apart Tomorrow 5/19/2024 How Do We Stop Feeling Depressed? 5/19/2024 A Depressed Penguin? 5/18/2024 5/17/2024 2 comments Kuzgun 11/1/2013 - 6:31 pm Every scar is a victory, every wound can heal again, but a broken heart is Eternal and broken hearts will only find beauty in darkness. Log in to Reply Kuzgun 11/1/2013 - 6:35 pm Edge 1960~ written By Silvia Plath before her suicide The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over. Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty. She has folded Them back into her body as petals Of a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odors bleed From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag. Log in to Reply Leave a Comment Cancel ReplyYou must be logged in to post a comment.Subscribe to comments: Don't subscribe All new comments Replies to my comments Notify me of followup comments via e-mail. You can also subscribe without commenting.
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Every scar is a victory, every wound can heal again, but a broken heart is Eternal
and broken hearts will only find beauty in darkness.
Edge 1960~ written By Silvia Plath before her suicide
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.