i am exhausted.
my skin is as tired as my mind,
my bones hallow enough
for a breeze to blow
and still rattle them noisily
creating an ailing symphony
of pain, of old age
i am only 19.
but everything feels grey.
the locks on my head
are shedding and collecting
gathering around my feet
and as i peer down at
them with glassy eyes
i realise
i am sick.
i am sick of
feeling up and down
when i want to be the same
i am sick of
being told i'm losing my mind
constantly wanting to be sane
i am sick of looking behind me
wishing i could change
i am sick of writing poetry
only when i am in pain
i am ill
and i'm twice my age
YOU ARE READING
nostrum
Poetry‣ nostrum noun { a medicine prepared by an unqualified person, especially one that is not considered effective } - = ≡ ___________ [ previously published as " pills and alcohol " ] ◂
