Not the end of the book.
I see cloud.
But not in the sky.
In my head.
I see pain.
And nothingness.
It's like I'm falling.
To nothing.
I'm coming closer to the end,
But not because I'm getting older.
I need to clear the grey,
Make way for blue skies,
But I can't.
Not here,
Not now.
I must either wait for my time,
Or make it now.
I know that you will be sad,
And grieve and cry and cry.
It's not because I want attention,
Or I myself am sad.
I'm just empty and I need to let go.
I need to stop living so I can live again.
I try to be a rose,
And cover up my thorns,
My bad side.
By showing my flowers.
I wear a mask,
I hide myself from true reality,
From real life.
I wish I could cut off my pain and scars like a rose cuts off its thorns.
But I can,
I can create a piece of art:
With a razor as my paintbrush,
And my skin as a canvas.
And my pain pours out with my blood.
But not enough,
So I carry on until I am the end.
YOU ARE READING
Personification
Poesía//3rd Place Arctic Awards// Through poetry, this book expresses different mental illnesses, emotions and discoveries of a teenage mind. 'No amount of body lotion or perfume could cover up the memory of his smell on my weakened, scarred skin, And no...
