midnight at the bridge
When your mind keeps you up for too many days,
You begin to see things.
Like your dead great-grandmother
Sitting in the corner.
Or wolves in your lukewarm tea.
And when the rest of the world wakes,
They will poke at the
Bags under your eyes
And the redness of your heart.
All you have in reply is
Sorry, I'm tired.
It's not your fault,
Never was.
You learned that your own
Two arms are not enough
To rock you to sleep.
That you're waking nightmares are better
Then the ones you see asleep.
YOU ARE READING
songs we sang on sundays
Poetrya random collection of original poems by yours truly about love, depression, god, and all things teen angst. feel free to give critiques (kindly please). I haven't shared these with many people and I want to get better at this craft I love so dearly...
