According to Edgar Allen Poe, poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
Home was the sweet scent of great certainty.
The weather, a harsh heat.
The darkness of the forest felt so raw, and deeply real.
As months went by, home wreaked with contradictory boasts of reality.
The staircases that I walked down everyday became so foreign.
The things and people I bore my soul to disappeared like the stars on a foggy night.
What is this world without the one thing that kept me so, so stable?
My good heart; that was one of my faults.
I was looking for "angels inside of demons", and I was fighting for something I would never get back.
An abysmal nothing at 2am.
"Our shoes are tattered and torn, but our feet are dry. As for our places in history, we will run naked through your streets before we sit decorated in your halls."