I Don't Want To Waste My Life:
The room's growing smaller
As is my state of mind.
An anxious urgency
Clawing to the top of my throat
Only to spew out jagged shards
Scattered onto the desk.
The room smells of paint and something cold.
Probably something like me.
The need to live sets in
Like a heavy weight.
Pulling me under the tide again as I desperately
Scrape my way onto shore,
Fingernails breaking
And palms bleeding.
Knobbly knees are bruised,
Eyes are sporting bags
That are not designer.
Skin blotched and tired.
But I can't stop because I haven't finished
Living.
The room's growing smaller
As chatter heightens
Rambunctious laughter reminding me
I wasn't living as they were Saturday night
When she threw up in a bush
And he passed out.
The room smells of agitation
and something exhausted.
Something like me.
And I realised maybe they're not really living at all.
~J.K.M
YOU ARE READING
1. An Implication (Poetry)
PoesíaPoetry for humanity. A collection of thoughts. An array of poetry displayed in raw light. "For what it's worth, not even words can explain the complications in ones head." ~J.K.M.
