I get so weighed down.
Existing is like I'm a one man show.
I'm drowning in a box on the side of the road.
And because of the "Houdini" of it all a crowd starts to form.
I'm locked in this box, hands behind my back, weights on my feet.
It looks so cohesive.
The street is set up, I climbed in there willingly,
And the more I thrash the more authentic people believe it to be.
They gather around.
They watch.
Laughing, cheering, pointing,
Some seem concerned or maybe ask questions of worry.
Not to me of course.
Just aloud. Almost like they don't expect anyone to answer.
But as my lungs scream for air.
As my vision slowly goes black with spots.
As my limbs go from frantic to fire to cold and dead.
The crowd, still formed, whispers assurances. Accusations. Of
She can handle it
Other people have it way harder then this
It's all part of the act
She's a professional at this point
She shouldn't have gotten into it if she couldn't get out.
The crowd consoles it's own doubts.
They watch me,
One person.
All alone.
And they walk away from the show.
Too bored to stay,
Too busy to care,
I may never know the answer.
But my final act is always staying there trapped in that box.
I just wish someone would've seen me drowning.
I just wish someone would've helped me to get out.
C.G.
YOU ARE READING
No one is there
Poetrypoetry book. all the things I've written that I could never say out loud. Some topics may be difficult for some people so check for disclaimers .
