blank pages
beckon to me
like empty canvases
but the physical exertion
of picking paints up
is one i can't muster.
i dream wide
and imagine bright
but my expectations
chain me down
to the bed i never leave.
some people have a word for it
depression
they say
but my self-loath
pushes me down
and buries it away.
if only i could dance
and express the emotions inside
if only i could write
with pain
that makes people cry.
yet as i lay
under the blankets
in the midst of cold and terror
a crumbling ball
a broken pain-bearer.
i could end it now
end it forever
but there's a hope
burning inside
consuming me
to get better.
~ lost
YOU ARE READING
acheful
Poetry❝ the town was paper but the memories were not. ❞ an anthology of poems written during an inexplicable journey of friendship, hope and forgiveness called life.
