I'm tired...
very tired of the way that I am.
I don't like now.
I wanna disappear -
disappear from this body.
I'm disposable and wilted,
like the old skin of a banana.
Why should I explain?
No one would even begin to get my head.
I hate the restrictions of finance and
teenage years,
unable to run on my own.
Money vanishes before my palms even
get a chance to grasp it.
I don't want to lay my head on my pillow
and sink,
counting the hours that my unhappy
days spend staring at me.
My mere existence gives me mind sickness.
My eyes look forward to nothing but weeping.
Sometimes, they don't even have that to count on.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poetry(#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...
