Broken
Not a lot of things make sense when you have the slightest idea what you're listening to. A crowd of people and I feel like I'm all alone. Every thought in my mind is jumbled and it's rather aggravating. People don't like me, they think I'm weird, or stupid. I'm not stupid, I just don't like communication. They seem to misinterpret my refusal to respond as rudeness and ignoring.
My own mother thinks I am a waste of space, someone sucking in precious oxygen that could be used for something more significant. I feel as if I've been a flower left in the sun for too long, withered and crying for water. I'd rather be in a garage, the door shut, with the car going and die slowly and painfully, than be forced to live in this sick existence of a life.
I'm broken, everything about me is broken. A broken condom is what got me here. I'm a drunken mistake who pleads for things out of reach, and searching for things that are too far for the naked eye to make out.
--Anonymous
Not exactly a poem, but close enough...
