Seeing it makes me feel sick,
Lacking any source of wit-
The stream of tears coursing down my face is merely not important, nor is worth it.
Looking at it makes me feel sick,
Pale bones, pale skin, glossy eyes, gray smiles- a life of deprivation. A life not deserving of air; a life wasted.
Put it in the back of my mind- try not to think of it- it's there, it's always there.
It comes out in ways that are extraordinary- it likes feeling pain.
It jabs people with black pupils- piercing their skin- yet they do not bleed- they merely notice; look away; it seems.
It controls me, with strings clear, not visible. It doesn't exist, yet it's there, it's always there.
It makes me feel sick,
It likes it.
It is me.
Me is it.
Not worth it.
Wasted.
It's wasted.
It likes me.
I hate it.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry & Short Stories
PoetryA compilation of all my favorite poems and short stories I've written. ▪️Please give credit where credit is due. ▪️ ▪️These stories are written by me, and any similarity to any other story or poem is merely coincidental. ▪️ ➿I would truly love any s...
