I cannot move.
It's more of a psychological thing
Than the physical inability
To move.
Every time I stare out the window,
I feel my chest in pain as my mind
Goes blank and imagines oddities
Like nets and bushes and foggy things.
My brain no longer feels fried,
It feels like I"m beating a dead body
In hopes it will speak to me again.
It won't.
We've said this before that it was
The damned system,
But what if it's not?
What if it's me, clinging onto the afterlife
Like a child does to a stuffed animal?
What if it's me,
Seeing something I shouldn't
And feelings things I had never felt?
Now all I can think is,
"It's back. What
The fuck am I going to do now?"
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PoetryI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
