How many of these can I write before I make things right?
How many times must I relive the pain?
One thousand and four.
Does spilling my demons on paper eventually make them go away?
Am I doing something wrong?
One thousand and four.
Each sentence is a piece of my soul,
each letter a cry for help.
The ink of my pen stained many a parchment, only to bring more sadness into the world.
One thousand and four.
Am I helping or hurting myself?
Is talking about my father going to change my damaged state?
One thousand and four.
Often I think to give up and wallow in my sorrows.
After all, isn't life just an endless series of pain mixed with happiness?
One thousand and four.
No eloquent phrasing or metaphor can fix me, nor can it fix you.
That drink won't help, and neither will that cigarette.
One thousand and four.
People don't really change.
They may think so, but a damaged soul will always be just that.
One thousand and four.
How many more tears must I cry before you realize that I am broken beyond repair?
How many more times must I hurt you, and in turn also hurt me?
One thousand and four.
When will you realize that you cannot save me?
How far must I sink before I hit the ocean floor?
One thousand and four.
YOU ARE READING
Stereotypical
PoetryThis is a collection of random poems/letters that I'll probably never get to say aloud.
