One month since we've spoken to each other and now I see that you don't need me anymore.
The first seven were filled with rain that threatened to tell the sun and the moon about my pain but then it stopped because it realized that there was no gain, here I am with no remains. I can barely remember my own name.
The next seven were filled with silence as I sat and tried to remember what it was like to be migrant, now they call me a tyrant for not wanting to cause violence.
The next seven left me with fuming rage that couldn't be contained by this cage made of pills. I've lost my will.
The last seven days left me understanding that in order for me to have you, I must not be standing.
My back must not be straight and I must never be late because if I were a day late I'd lose a mate and I'd have to sit in this cage with my hands tied behind my back and await my fate.
I use to never use the word hate.
31 agonizing days forced me to stay awake in order to learn a lesson.
4 weeks spent completely alone, even when they told me I'd never be alone and I'll always feel wrong for ever deciding that you were good enough.
This road had been rough.
I don't know how much more I can take, but right now, I'm waiting for month two to take its place.
YOU ARE READING
Words.
PoetryThis is a book I write in to relieve my mind of the horror it creates for itself. Poems or not, they're words. Definitions or examples, they're words. My words. Read it or not, they're my words.
