Curled beneath three blankets in their basement bedroom, they lay, unmoving, on their side. Their heart beats loud, feeling it within their skull.
They overthink so much that it hurts. Tears stain their cheeks. They want to do better, be better, and they just can't seem to figure out how. Life feels empty. They're just drifting through it without purpose.
They're tired. They're fake. They're worthless.
They just want to be numb for a while.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 2
Poesíajust a bunch of poetry, started january of 2020. we'll see how far it takes us. I basically just post random ass poems I create, not in any promised order. it just happens. this is book two - I stopped book one after one hundred poems. I think I'll...
