Sitting silently disobeying your commands,
Wishing for a day when someone understands.
The suffocation being around your 'authority'
And the isolated contemplation searching for clarity.
Maybe I am indeed just an oxygen thief,
Yet I can't bring myself to turn over a new leaf.
Maybe I should cut off said oxygen supply,
But is it for me, or for you I'm wishing to die?
So, in leaving this place, I venture out,
With intentions of the ability to dance, dream & shout.
However, it doesn't take long for me to realise,
My self-esteem and confidence were all just lies.
I am no leader, and I hate to follow,
Leaving my heart stone cold and hollow.
However, in those few seconds I had felt alive,
And now that I've left, I don't want to die.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoetryLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
