I'm punching, fighting, kicking,
Dragging my nails down a chalkboard,
Fighting for my way out.
I'm working and I'm working and I know I'm moving,
But I'm not going anywhere.
I'm screaming but my cries are muffled,
I've got H-E-L-P written across my face,
I need to go, need to go, need to be anywhere but here
I'm being suffocated, scraped, stuck,
There's the dirty smell of a farm.
My shiny outside is being littered with dirt, scratches, rust
My dignity slowly being taken down with my appearance
I'm losing myself, even I don't know who I am, where I am anymore
I'm fighting, I'm fighting, but I'm being taken away into more darkness,
More dirt, more scratches, more rust.
It's still dark. And although I can't tell where I am, it's different.
I know I'm different. I don't know what happened, but I know the feeling.
When there's so much others, you just get taken away--
A needle in a haystack world.
********
song -- "All the Rowboats," Regina Spektor
YOU ARE READING
My View from the Mount
PoetryA really close friend (she's the older sister I never had) once told me that I don't need to be established to consider myself a writer. So here I am. I'm a writer, but I'm not a professional. I'm just a girl with a pen who speaks through a notebook...
