I find it harder and harder to write
perhaps now I feel almost nothing
Or perhaps I feel it all at onceAnd my little brain can only think of processing it all
But never actually doesWhen I am gone and you find yourself in the land of unpublished literature
And you care not enough for yourself to read my work
Pity me not
For I write not of my pain
cursed to understand everything else except my self.Some claim to understand me,but tell me sorcerer how do you understand what you do not know.
I do not say enough for you to know me
I just say enough for you to want to know meYou see I make everyone I converse with a necromancer
pity they do not see I am dying inside.But not for long
I've prayed about it and any day now I will no longer show you my tears
the sight of me crying is a spectacle I am too selfish to display.What does it matter in the end
perhaps when I lay to rest and return to dirt,
I'll be used to grow onionsAnd make people cry the way I should have Everytime I was hurt
YOU ARE READING
Magenta
PoetryA somewhat sad poem about a poet,in awe at their experiences , plagued by a frantic thought circle , overwhelmed and consumed by their existence , and a distrust for the proclaimed understanding of others to their plight.