“I try so hard to make sense to people, to things,
just so I would feel like I have a purpose, useful.
’Cause I don’t want to be described as a pest to the world.
It would be an offense because pests bug you at night,
whisper to your ears,
eat your brain piece by piece,
until they become you.
And though I am so near to being fully consumed,
and my sanity is falling apart,
still, I try to make sense, to have a role.
So that, at least, before I die,
I am sure that I did something.
And I’ll make sure that I won’t turn into a pest,
even if the only way is dying.”
YOU ARE READING
Hey You, Stranger!
PoesíaSometimes, when things seem to fall down, and when we can't see anyone around to help us pick the fallen pieces up, we tend to do it by ourselves in silence. But I don't want for us to stay living with that mindset, because I still believe that help...
