Maybe more -exists
in the ruins
i should pack up the shovel
burn the map
but -I am addicted
in the worst way,
your cold hands turn warm
buried inside,
lost in a labyrinth I call home.
(Don’t shoot me. These are imperfect poems. Snapshots of a bruised soul. Sometimes surfing. Other times drowning.)
Poetry anxiety depression dreamscapes journey raw and unedited
