A poem; my Grandma died a while ago, not believing me. Part of me mourns her, part of me feels angry, and I wish we'd have reconcilled. But, I heard, right before she died, she was sorry for how she'd treated me, but then it was too late. +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- {{Apology too late}} I hope the ground is dry so if I try to cry; i can let this sorrow soak. {{ no soil here / no soul here }} This kind of ink Stains deep; Too much to soak under my skin {I'll want to drown} These bruises he left {When I sink I leave a stain} These bruises he left {If I sink, I'll leave a name} These bruses he left... |