I wrote this poem 2 or 3 years ago but it's really relatable to me lately. A couple weeks ago, maybe 3, my mum threatened to take all my shit of my room (which means more than likely she would've thrown stuff out cuz she used to do that when I was a kid) and make us switch rooms. I have the biggest room cuz I have the must shit. This was while I was on Zoloft which was making my depression even worse. Instead of asking if something was wrong she went to threatening and getting angry at me. SHE said MY dirty room was causing her stress. Like did she think I genuinely wanted to be living in filth. Like I was really struggling and she made me feel so fucking shitty. But hey it stressed her out so how I was feeling didn't cross her mind. Oki rant over, here's the poem.
Depressed Room
Clothes, garbage, dishes, they litter my floor
I want to clean my room, I said I would I swore
But part of my mind tells me what's the point
While the other part screams at me to not disappoint
But I am a disappointment, I'm a waste of space
I try so hard to get out of my head and out of this place
But I simply can't, no matter how hard I try
I sit in this dirtied room and I cry and cry
Clothes, garbage, dishes, they litter my floor
I want to clean my room, I said I would I swore
YOU ARE READING
Some Poems
PoezjaHello to whoever comes across this. This will be a book with all of (or most of) my poetry. As a warning some of these poems will mention TW; self-harm and/or mentions of un-aliving one's self. I am NOT trying to glamorize these topics whatsoever. I...
