The Broken Novelist

Published October 29, 2013 by Amy Elizabeth
I guess I should have drawn a script,
Dark enough to complete the puzzle,
Before you stole the most important piece.The silence of it fills my eyes,
To the point,
Where I’m drowning
your disguise.

Why should I have to explain,
When the winter crushes the warmth,
Less than your eyes crush mine.

It just doesn’t make sense.

This is different.
Because anger is quite the opposite,
To that which escapes my lips.
When it should be spread across my face:

Like a novelist who never found the words,
I created a book of the heart,

That was too self explanatory for it’s own good.


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