I write until my fingers and thumbs are bruised,
My eyes fuzzy from the light of my phone screen.
Constantly comparing my writing to those I love,
An annoyance of why I can't even pick up my own book,
or why I have thousands of ideas yet im still stumped
Or why I haven't found my muse,
or why I haven't eaten in days,
I rot In my own bed for days in a stench that drowns my senses,
a constant headache lingering,
I was joyful before I indulged myself in meaningless words in hopes I'd become a writer,
When I stop being tragic I will breathe.
— H.R.P
YOU ARE READING
poetry
Poetrypoems of mine, some I write in the moment, Some as confessions, some as things held close to me- this is my story, my story which I share with cautiousness. Full disclosure!! : references of abuse, trauma, self Harm, suicide, and depression.
