Once again I'll fiddle my thumbs and awkwardly described to you my past 14 years, in high hopes that maybe you'll fix me. But all I can expect is an increase in my medicinal dosage and maybe a rose or two that you picked just for me from your garden of pity.
More and more paper printed a dull green wasted on your shit judgement and all I can do is nod my head in flimsy agreement because I've got to last the summer. What a glorious way to spend my time when I could be healing at the bottom of a swimming pool, or at the knotted end of a particularly heafty rope.
So tonight I'll flick off the lights and listen to the crickets whilst I waste breath, just to see you again when the Sun rises.
YOU ARE READING
Requins
PoetrySome words thrown together, forming something along the lines of poetry.