You are an genuine antique 
A soul so pure and pleasantly crafted 
Always subject to scarring critique 
But cruel predators that pick at your flaws 
Know nothing of the lion lingering behind those big sad irises hollowed by hellish trials 
You will rise and they will fall away 
Fight your way across that desolate Savannah of life
And take your rightful place among those who will stand by you 
Through the fires of your darkest hours 
For you are meant to roar


About Into Oblivion

It's a midnight Kiss from Hell A sweet spell that Poetry sells to my shadowy mind I just like writing random poetry and shit
This entry was posted in Beauty, Emotion, Love, Poetry, Uncategorized, victory. Bookmark the permalink.

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