Porch
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I sit on my porch
When I want to
Withdraw from everything.
I question the universe
And the "God" that
Created me.
I wonder if I really matter
Or if I'm just a problem.
I sit there, in the same spot,
And think about
Friends that say
They care a lot.
Would they change without me?
I imagine their lives
Severed from my touch
And they don't seem
To change very much.
Their lives would
Be so great,
If I indulged in my self-hate.
I dream about a
Perfect world where
People don't remember me
And have no memory
Of my life.
By then my crying
Gets masked by the
the pouring rain.
Maybe writing another
shitty poem
Will soothe the pain.
