This is fine.
I promise, just like your quality family time, I don't value my purpose or worth.
Lately it seems like I've been getting worse.
Worse?
Was I bad in the first place?
Did I ignorantly blank out the cause and the mistakes,
the very ones made me this way?
Did I lose some time, while sitting alone?
Do I still sit here wondering why I can't seem to condone,
My own throne.
The throne made of clouds.
It looks so soft and forgiving, but really reality comes crashing down:
That it is cold.
And it is wrong.
And everything I've been working towards until now will just say, "So long."
(TW)
And I stand in the water,
Blood dripping down.
My razor is sharp and my life purpose not found.
I sit and I wait for some savior to come down,
But then remember,
Up there, there are only clouds.
YOU ARE READING
my inner chaos
PoetryA flow of my daily struggles and thoughts put into deep and free poetry.
