It's a nice house.
The one where I live.
It's small, and it's warm, and we all live like pigs.
Sometimes it's messy.
Sometimes it's clean.
Sometimes it's a shoulder, on which I lean.
When the weather is nice,
There's nothing sweater.
Then the storm blows in,
And The house starts to teeter.
The house sits,
On the edge of a cliff.
The storm hits,
Our necks become stiff.
We lock our doors,
We try to hide.
Opened old sores.
Time will not bide.
The storm passes,
Our hearts will not pause.
Cleaning broken glasses,
We buckle our jaws.
No one says it,
But we all think.
when will the next fit,
Send us over the brink?
YOU ARE READING
Human
Não FicçãoI've gone through some crap. We all have, so maybe you can relate. This is poetry about the life of another depressed human.
