We've all been called worthless,
maybe once, twice, thrice or less.
Feeling that we really are,
we fight to prove them the opposite.
But no matter how much we try,
no matter how much we cry,
we know that they'll never stop.
Once we've reached the point,
where in we're not struggling to fight,
but just living our life, not shaping ourselves
into someone we're not.
Just breathing,
maybe we can be happy again.
Just maybe.
— the false hope in every maybe. I'm tired of being unsure.
YOU ARE READING
up in the clouds
Poesíashe felt trapped, or more likely she really was stuck wherever she was. writing poems was her escape out of the black hole she fell in through. whenever she wrote what she had to say and expressed what she had felt, it was almost like she was up in...
