Endlessly, it follows,
through snow and sleet and rain.
And at my feet, it wallows
through my suffering and my pain.
The air is always colder
in the spot where it always waits,
and as each day grows older,
at my feet, it seems to pace
until it passes by me
and looks me in the eyes
and asks if I can see
that it's a blessing in disguise.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
