there were no songs for it.
none for the looks
i received in the halls
a year after it happened.
none for the second
and none for the third.
there were no songs for
the sinking feeling in my stomach
when i saw
his name pop up on my screen
after months of pretending.
there were no songs
not for the
things that came to mind
when i began to beg
plead
for basic necessities.
still no songs
for the play-acting
as if everything is fine
everything is great
being the artist
but never the muse,
being the bucket holding,
but never the water inside,
being the foundation
but never the glue.
no songs
for the feeling
of holding up the world
with the words balanced on a blade
on my tongue
slicing whenever it had the chance,
because all i have are chances now.
no
songs
for anything
anymore
anywhere
anywho,
who cares?
no songs.
no sir.
not if i'm not the one
writing then.
there were no songs for it.
because if i'm not the one
holding everyones emotions,
analyzing their every move,
hiding mine,
then who will?
YOU ARE READING
another empty bottle
Poetrythis is a compilation of vent poetry. I will not be including trigger warnings, an exception made for the first piece. read at your own risk. wow reading over this is embarrassing am i really that unstable
