I've gotten so skilled,
At lying about my sorrow.
No one would believe it if I killed,
What's left of myself tomorrow.
They would go mad,
If a girl so happy,
Was really sad,
And not so sappy.
I want to die every day,
I convince myself I'll do it later.
They ask if I want to go play,
Sure, I think, I'll play with my razor.
YOU ARE READING
Almost a poet
PoetryI'm trying my luck at poetry so it'd be great to get some feedback. Keep in mind that these poems are strongly related to depression, anorexia, and things of that sort. If you are recovering, this story is not recommended for you.
