I am made of wires and chemicals and things
I choke and choke until I turn green
Suffocated by your words
Thoughts scatter like frustrated birds
I am a complicated mess
I constantly digress
The pain of what I feel
To you, it's not real
A figment of imagination
For which there is no simplification
I try and try to explain
But no matter what, you can't understand my pain
I just want to die
Hours seem to fly by
When I think about death
And what'll happen when I run out of breath
Not yet will I be dying
Unless, of course, I'm lying
But I am not suicidal
These thoughts just turn the dial
Inside my brain
For which I do not gain
Any sense of relief
All I feel is grief
Just give me my time of peace
I want the suffering to cease
I call and call your name
But you think it's just a game
Because I'm a complicated mess
And I constantly digress
YOU ARE READING
Stupid Poetry Book
PoetryA collection of experimental poems. They're cool, I guess. You'll just have to check them out for yourself.
