Will the rain be cold enough
to finally freeze over my soul completely?
Will I ever love that ugly mess
that stares back at me in the mirror?
Will I ever go a day
without thinking about death?
Will I ever be comfortable with
having a little bit of my skin exposed?
Will I ever not cry
when I think about how huge I am?
Will my drawings
stop being depressing?
Will someone ever
accept me as I am?
Will I ever
just be okay again?
So far the answer
is no.
YOU ARE READING
Out There
PoesíaPoems from my mind, which is out there scattered in the galaxy. This book will tend to be off, but that's ok.
