I don't know what to write.
I don't know what to think about.
Am I writing out of spite?
Or just because the noise in my head is too loud?
I'm not sure how to think.
I'm not sure how to breathe.
I kinda feel like a sink.
Empty, because people always leave.
Enemies tend to be temporary as most things always are.
I'm as filled as an empty library.
A place where hate likes to flower.
For some reason I'm not tired even though it's long past midnight.
I feel like I'm wired to feel empty but still heavy instead of light.
I guess these are the thoughts that slip past my mind so late at night.
But if I could wish, I'd beg for silence in my mind.
I'd look at a star and I suppose the conversation would begin 'I wish I may, I wish I might.'
A/N: I found this in a book today and I thought it was kind of interesting. It's been years since I wrote this I don't even know how many. I hardly remember the book it was in. It just seemed like something I wanted to share.
YOU ARE READING
The Weeping Woods
PoetryAgony in the form of stanzas, words in the form of little silent cries. I made the cover but I don't own any of the pictures. !There's also quite a bit of explicit language!
