I'm commonly told my life is like a book, and this chapter will pass by one day.
I know I am the writer of my story, and yet it does not feel that way.
If I am the writer of my story, then why can i not seem to do things properly?
Why can I rarely focus on any task?
Why can I not feel comfortable around people?
Why can I never seem to get math right?
Why are there others in my head?
Why does it take me hours to manage to fall asleep?
Why can I never seem to understand what the hell is happening in this book.
If I am the writer of my lifelong book, why do the pages never turn my way?
Perhaps this book was meant to stay in the back of the library, unnoticed and unread.
The way I prefer it.
but what if i burn the library?
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YOU ARE READING
The bodies in the graveyard of my mind.
PoetryHow do I tell the world the way I feel about you like I tell the moon?
