Mist floats down around me
And the grass is sparkling with dew.
The scent of rain mixed with growing dread.
I can't see five feet in front of me.
Where are you?
The mist, now thick fog, closes in.
I've lost track of my feet.
And where are my hands?
I can't see you.
The bitter taste of fear mixed with muffled screams.
They seem too far away to grasp.
I can't grasp anything.
Am I the mist now?
Am I the mist now?
Am I the mist now?
YOU ARE READING
Art Will Survive, Artists Won't
PoetryThis book is a compilation of free-form poetry that I've written. Most of it is pretty personal, but I hope you'll like it regardless. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: depression, self-harm, lgbtq+, suicidal thoughts
