180311
on silent days like this
leaning my head on the filthy window ,
the other side covered with water droplets
watching the sun settle into the horizon
as the petrichor fills the air.
the clock ticks
the water runs
the fridge hums
the light flickers
all of these small things and soft sounds suddenly become clear to my earshot
maybe because they echo on the walls of empty rooms
i couldn't care less about the scraping paint
i'm going to leave this prison anyway.
do you think those scattered glass of bottles will hurt me if i step on them?
i tried tracing my arm with it
yet i didn't feel pain
i smell like the sewer
my clothes ripped
my hair a disheveled mess
my lips chapped and dry
my mind a turbulence of waves
the sun disappeared
and the stars are out now
so are the lights.
i never turn them on yet they flicker.
i'm still staring into the distance
for a normal human being they'd say the view is just road and trees.
nothing exciting.
but i see the life i left behind.
the little girl i see everyday looks so happy
chasing butterflies and petting stray cats
she looks nothing like me
but if i smile, will i look like her?
if i didn't sacrifice
my adolescence to my illness ,
would i end up with her
and not here?
i see reflections on the window
sometime in a while
i'm on the 15th floor
and nobody's here, either,
when i turn around.
the street lights down there never worked
no one or thing pass the roads
on either night or day
but my vision is still clear
as if the sun is always out .
as long as i can remember,
sunlight was never this bright
i see solid objects on plain white background of a blinding fluorescent light.
the view changes everytime i blink
as my eyelids get heavier
the view worsens
first the light goes dim
the figures and sillhouettes disappear
then it's bleak
dark clouds are forming
they cry, so do i.
lightnings flash and storm follows
i smile and lean down
and fall into deep slumber .
storm
it's finally the storm that lulls me to sleep.
____ . ____
first of all, i'm definitely okay.
this is just.. imaginary.
YOU ARE READING
Wishful Thinker
Poetry/wɪʃfʊl θɪŋkə/ . of the unreachable dreams . "you don't understand me, you never do you never see words the way I always do now I will bombard you with words see if you will ever be lost for words" started : 180219 ended : 181205
