I think I'm done with the constant agony of being worried. Maybe i should let it all go, stop being so nervous. But, if I do, that's exactly what my enemies want. What if they're waiting for me to slip? What if the friends I have, slip off their masks, and I see my enemies staring back as I'm falling slowly to my demise. The arms that were out to catch me quickly fold back. I land on the cement with all of the odd faces staring back at me. They huddled over me cackling away. I look in worry, their eyes turn a solid red. My arms, legs, and body is broken. I can't move. I can't cry. I can't show weakness at all. I'm weak though, I don't have numbers like them. They're most of the world. I'm only one fragile boy right?
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Letters To The Writer: Volume 1
PoetryJust me writing poems, can be sad, can be happy, matters about he day and what I'm writing about. This is really for me but if you like it a share, vote, comment would be much appreciated, thank you.
