Whenever I get really sad, I get cold.
Lights seem to be brighter than they are, so I turn them off.
My head aches from my racing thoughts.
I'm alone.
I'm all alone.
Just like I've always been.
I light candles to bring heat to my cold dark room, and just stare into the emptiness.
I rest a hand above the flame just to feel something.
My skin is marked up by scars, evil reminders that I have been battling myself for a long time.
I'm tired of fighting.
My dad wonders why I'm so tired, I don't do anything.
Dad, I'm doing alot.
You just can't see it.
But I can, everytime I close my eyes.
My thoughts are scrambled and my body is tense.
I get that urge to cut over and over again.
It's hell, I hate thinking.
I wish I could shut my brain up.
Just shut up!
Stop making me question being alive!
I want to live!
Don't I?
I don't know.
YOU ARE READING
Why Don't I Write You A Poem
PoesíaI write poetry all the time to an empty audience. I don't expect posting it here to be any different but at least I'm putting my work out there.
