All the sleepless nights chasing themselves,
a cold breeze of pressure storming in,
a confidence made out of carefully placed pieces,
a throat longing for water,
a stomach begging for use,
and a mind both dead and awake—
conscious, yet empty.
What was it all for?
"At least you did your best."
...
This is... my best?
I am so much more than the stares of shocked souls.
I can do so much more than a number
written on paper and carved into memory.
Both strangle me like scratch paper.
Scratch paper...?
Full of errors, messy,
and filled with things you don't want others to see.
A trial—
a try-hard.
God, it sounds so much like me.
a/n: I'm just sooo disappointed
YOU ARE READING
Dazed Off
Poetry𝑰 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒕; 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚... 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕. A collection of poems...
