Blink, crackle, fuzz,
as a lack of motivation.
Static desperation
in a deep grey blue.
Thick walls
of a three-sixty box.
Each close crunching wall
filled with TV screens.
You can see what's happening outside your box.
But you can't join in anything out there.
You just have to sit
through the static
and wait for the walls to thin
so that you can rejoin societies social attic.
You have to wait
for your will to participate in life
to stop running away.
You have to wait
for your aspirations
to escaped from the sack.
You have to wait for everything
to come back.
For your emotions
to not be on freeze.
In the corner,
underneath the TV screens.
For you to not feel numb.
And you might wish you were dead
in this state
while we're all sick in the head.
But the waiting
in the deep gray-blue
feels almost like death
already.
I'm sorry for being gone for a while. I couldn't bring myself to write anything or talk to anyone. I was trapped in the static box and the TV screens seemed to move to fast and I was moving too slow and I'm sorry. I'm feeling better, at least I think I am since I can write now. <3 Thank you for reading this poem, I think I'll be updating a lot more now.
YOU ARE READING
Nobody Was Meant to See
Poetry[Trigger Warning, please be safe when reading] They aren't supposed to know. They aren't meant to read these poems that I'm writing. I've concealed them for a reason. -Shitty poems about how I feel-
