My hands grasp for things
Out of reach
When my fist open empty
With nothing lying on its palm
My digits will curl
And knuckles crack under its pressure
And I will throw my closed fist
To whatever lies before me
Pain trickling my bones
And blood trailing down my hand
My knuckles will lie grazed and swollen
Digits too tired to curl
My hand will lie open
And palm still lying empty
YOU ARE READING
The Big Depressi
PoetryThese are some sad poems and some random imagery ones (light mention of suicide)
