And when she lie awake,
She stares at the ceiling and thinks,
Why the sun never set to end her troublesome worries.
As if the day lies on and on,
her head is filling with threats from her own and her thoughts.
The disease spreading like a wildfire
she never knew affected people,
They all fall but get to stand onto their feet again, as she comfort them like the only professional doctor in the world.
Observing them, what they liked, what they hated, what put them to ease, what she knew they needed.
She lay there wondering why she had to be the source of the burden of a million faces, of a billion problems. She couldn't understand,
she couldn't let go of everything she did wrong, she had no choice to face because everyone already knows. One in a billion,
she believed she became the problem.
She hid it so well, no one knew how to solve them.
She is now forgotten at her grave,
the place where vicious ravens live and all decomposing creatures and critters feast.
Everyone remembered what she did,
such regretful things they said to her.
New generations of theirs with no stories told of her miracle works.
Forgotten at the grave, she wanted so much of the careful love that she gave, but all were blind by ambition and all they repaid her were riches in hate.
YOU ARE READING
A random book
PoetryJust poems about depression, if you like that kind of stuff, I guess, it won't exactly be so updated as normal authors, so be discreet.
