It's one of those days again. The ones where I desperately need someone to listen, and there really, really isn't.
You could've been there for me, but I don't know how to bring this up; how do you tell someone things unearthed from the deepest parts of you, things that leaves you empty, filled with anxiety, lacking purpose and painted with insecurities, when for some reason, this person, the one person you really need to pour out to, feels distant? You could've been there for me, but for some reason you aren't.
And so, it becomes one of those days when I am clearly reminded that people, no matter how deeply connected may leave, but poetry doesn't. And it is yet one of those days when this is the only means I can pour out how I feel: random, meaningless, meaningful words that otherwise, would've ached, burned and scarred if left untended.
Indeed, writing has been a reliable source of therapy for me. For even now as I write, I feel the words, the heavy weight lifting from my weary heart, drying up into dying ink. The words remain, the weight lifts, and I am left feeling better than at the beginning.
You might not be there for me, I know. I do not understand your reasons, yet I wish with all that's left of this heart that you do not get to feel what I feel on these days. And when you finally do get to need someone like I do today, it will not be that you do not have me anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Whispers From The Dark
PoesíaIt all started with one person -the bane of my existence. And from there, the whole random package. This has to be the deepest emotions I've felt penned down in one single book-did i break that person or did I end up broken?
