i pick up my pencil
and write your name
over and over and over
until my hand gets sore
and my eyes shift to
the last place you stood
in my room.
next to the door.
because you were leaving,
i was grieving,
begging for more.
asking you to stay
for something i can't
handle, or even
trust, hope for,
live for.
you left and so will i.
i'm tired of living,
being trapped in my mind
hoping for an inch sized exit.
or a captivating choke.
i hope to be ended my morning.
if my will to live is smaller than this bullet,
should i pull it?
when it's over and done, will you miss me?
but my time is now, and i'm not leaving, and you can
come back, but you don't.
so here i sit.
pencil in my hand.
writing your name.
YOU ARE READING
untitled poems
Poetrythese are my untitled poems. i write when boredom strikes. they vary by my mood, and they may have different lines & stanzas than the next. they may rhyme. they may not. i don't capitalize my letters.
