Sinking in a corner,
Pressed into the wall ;
do they know I'm present,
am I even here at all?
Is there a written rule book,
that tells you how to be-
all the right things to talk about-
that everyone has but me.?
Slowly I am withering-
a flower deprived of sun;
longing to belong to,
somewhere or someone.
YOU ARE READING
things said and done.
Поэзияsome of my poetry is in this, it's not a book. Most of the poetry in this book is from my depression phase.
