This book is one of my oldest friends. I made it to help me deal with the shit inside my head. And you'd think after all this time I'd be good or dead. But here I am, coming back to it again.
I keep coming back to it again.
Just like my mind likes to return to that day and that trip. Everything reminds me. Every memory pins. The pain straight into my heart. I've been uncomfortable since. But I thought I'd get over it. But the shirt rests in my closet. And the book sits on my shelf. And I should burn all those things. But I don't think that would help. When your heart is still inside of my chest. And my brain won't give it a rest. If you're reading this still please don't. The pain is so much I almost choke. And I write this for myself. Think I need to get some help. Find a way to post without sharing. Have the views without the people caring. I don't remember what I was talking about. Did you love me or are you better off without? Don't lie dont speak don't share. The pain exists within the air. I should really let this go. Maybe tonight I'll let them all know.
YOU ARE READING
I Wrote This At Midnight
PoetryI Wrote This At Midnight is a collection of poems I have and will write, that were most likely written late at night (or just feel very chaotic). As always, thank you for your support, I hope you enjoy :) Warning: The poems included are not censored...
