Culture

The heart filled with a poisoned dart

The stone settled into her consciousness

Weighing her down into a vat of anxiety

She raised her hand and placed it on her heart

It was still beating

She steadied her mind

Wishing for better days

Hoping against hope

Knowing change was a sloth

She heard the voices

And they were stinging

The world was spinning speciousness

All filled with impropriety

The heart filled with a poisoned dart

Overheating and seething

She needed to run, runaway

And pick up that stone and throw far, far away

Categories: Culture, Poetry, Psychology

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