The packing,
Isn't the worst part.
Although it's,
A close third.
The sobbing,
That shakes my entire-
Body,
The night before..
Isn't the worst part.
Although it's,
A close second.
I'd have to say,
The leaving.
Is the worst part.
Maybe that seems like,
Common sense.
But I don't think,
You understand.
The actual,
Physical,
Leaving..
Hurts.
Like a blow,
To the chest.
The instant I walk out that door..
My shaking returns.
The weight settles back,
On my chest.
And I'm reminded of,
My worries.
Suddenly,
They seem so much,
Worse.
More,
Intense.
More,
Unavoidable.
Once that house,
My home,
Is out of sight..
It takes everything I have-
Every ounce of strength-
To not,
Break down..
Entirely.
And every time,
This happens,
I question..
Why I keep bothering,
With the life,
I am going back to.
Why I keep bothering,
With trying.
It must be..
That fear.
The fear,
That has almost consumed,
Me.
I don't want to cause,
Issues.
But the issues with,
Myself,
And my mind..
Those issues,
Are only becoming..
Worse.
Because I'm too concerned,
With everyone else.
Too concerned with,
Not making,
A mess.
I guess what I don't realize..
Is that I,
Am the main mess,
Now.
And every time,
It only gets..
Worse.
Everything,
About leaving..
Is the-
Worst part.
YOU ARE READING
The Words of a Person
PoesíaMy words. Typed. As if- They could ever be called- Neat. *WARNING* Life is fucked up- So I guess I am too.
