Five months.
Does that mean fucking nothing to you?
You were fine.
You've grown so much in the past year.
You have a beautiful girl next to you.
You have supporting parents.
You have friends.
Five months.
You fucking smiled all day yesterday.
So you got a two.
So what?
You can fucking move on and live with yourself.
Five months, babe.
Your scars are fading.
You can finally take Tylenol again.
You've gotten rid of so much toxic shit in your life.
This past year was shitty, but you've been doing good.
Until you got a fucking two?
Grow up.
More scars won't help you get there, dipshit.
But they can sure as hell stop you from even trying.
So, can you stop?
Can you let yourself get better?
Guess we'll have to wait another five months and see.
~Ty
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Personal Poems and Lyrical Laments
PoetryThis book is entirely made of poems I've written over the years and unfinished lyrics/rantings that kind of rhyme. I wanted to publish them somewhere and I feel like WattPad is a safe enough place to do so without too much backlash. Please enjoy an...
