The Poetry Bar


That night, I slept with my hand,
My soft and broken hand,
Resting on my neck.

my hand almost looked like it was strangling me,
or rather controlling itself from doing so,
but the truth was it wasn’t.
My hand was there because I needed it,
I needed my fingers grazing my pulse.

That pulse was a reminder,
a reminder that I’m living,
I’m alive.
That I lived yet another day,
despite the forces,
The weight pulling me down.

That pulse was a figment of music,
A pleasant sound sang by Hope,
Hope that there would be another day,
Another fight with gravity,
Another war won.

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