three voices,
but it sounds like more
three echoes,
pushing through my door.
why the fuck
is it so loud here
they're a flight
of stairs down, not even near.
my vision shouldn't
be blurry, i said no more tears
i refuse to keep
crying about this for anymore years.
but it's noise and it's
loud — too loud —
and it could stop if we
weren't so proud — too proud.
i want it to stop,
it's been going on for too long
you can't tell me
i'm stupid for hurting, shouldn't
tell me i'm wrong.
yet here we are
and i want out,
but all we do is
shout and shout.
- a. // 6.18.21
YOU ARE READING
shoebox | a poetry collection
Poetry" 𝑖'𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒙 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝒃𝒆𝒅. . . " - a collection of poems written by yours truly - " . . . 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 . "
