icy kiln
A shade of me that is never bright.
Not until everything is satisfyingly fixed.
I don't like the words that cut me deep.
How I think of them immensely.
How the sun shines on my gloomy self.
How I sit there and ask what is wrong with me.
When I live and breath with myself.
I am my own walking contradiction.
I cry at the thought of me.
A sign I can't clearly see.
My vision blurrier at the impeding version of me.
faint sparrow