The room is cold again.
My toes are rigidly rubbing under the duvet that cradles me,
the cotton at the bottom has frayed and the buttons are long forgotten,
I can't sleep.
"God gave us the gift of life; it is up to us to give ourselves the gift of living well." voiced Voltaire, many moons I missed ago...
I'm not generous though.
My head is hurting again.
The sound of noisy neighbours drones like my school life,
my eyes are bloodshot just waiting for a text,
my heart croaks not beats.
"God gave us the gift of life..."
Awkwardly: "Where's the receipt?"
YOU ARE READING
The Confessions of a 90's Kid
Poetry"Words are weapons: for warriors, for war heroes, for worrying teenagers and therefore for me."
