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POV you’re too sick for your poetry to be cohesive but you’re too behind in every class to not post something

Longing for the love stuck in your fingers

Sweet as honey but it stings like bees

I’m not allowed to put my pen down but 

I’ve already stopped asking for the word 

To describe that I’ve stopped asking for the happiness 

That comes sweet as liquor but it molds so quick 

What’s the point of repairing the broken when the 

Sparks burn those who come too close? 

These lines are more painful than the actual truth anyway

-I hate my poetry sometimes

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