Untitled by Christopher Poindexter

It is a miserable thing how
I cannot seem to fall in love
with myself. Selfish it may sound
coming from my own clumsy tongue,
but that is where the romance starts,
isn’t it? Inside from one’s own soul?
Rippling out from bones to every
piece of skin one has had trouble
falling in love with?

We have blemishes, we carry scars.
We are tarnished, tainted and decorated
with filth; but beneath the dust, the
dirt, there lives always diamonds,
and behind the cloudy night,
lives always, a sea of endless
stars.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s