I keep falling.
I keep messing up.
I can't get out of my head.
I'm battling through the day.
Most of my nights are restless.
"Why can't you be pretty like them? " I tell myself.
" You've ruined the outer shell that God gave you at birth."
" What happened to the mind you used to have? Did it disappear?
Something took it away... You sure don't have it, anymore."
I'm fat in the wrong places.
I'm scrawny in others.
I look in the mirror; I see a monster -
A little, black monster.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poezja(#12 in Poetry- 3/5/17 |14 in Poetry- 2/28/17 |23 in Poetry- 11/18/16) Have you ever considered picking up a pen and writing to the one you fear most? Well, that's what I've done. When I write to my fears, It's oddly satisfying, because I know that...
