How do I latch onto things— how do I breathe?
How is it easy to outright say these things like they don't bother me. I'm losing the purpose of my pieces and paying little to no attention to the names engraved on each one.
Who the hell was June? And why'd she look at everyone else like she was willing to murder. She seemed like she was burning— engulfed in acid and she wanted everyone else burning too.
I can't believe I'm doing it again, I've loved everyone forgetting I'm someone too. Why can't I love myself enough to take care of my own things the way I've done for strangers.
I'm losing sleep and procrastinating— I've lost strength at the apex of the race and I've never felt more useless. Why is the void's beckoning sweet and humor crass at the same time?
Am I falling?
It says it won't kill me
But it won't save me either.
Maybe what keeps these thoughts muddled on my tongue is the creeping feel of embarrassment that racks disgusting shivers down my spleen. No one should gaze at my nakedness and see me—
Because then they're in the know and get to decide if I am worth the trouble.
Now I scribble like Stephen, a mad man with forgotten art tools and a dream— I smoke dried stems and snort porcelain because I don't care much for my life like gerald.
I'm always fighting like medieval times, no breaks in between and I'm tired. So so tired. My words make no sense to the euphoric folk but to me it's evolution and a channel for freedom.
Perhaps the apex of the race isn't the most tasking— I will decide to go out with a bang.
YOU ARE READING
Smile
Poetry"I've lived life through other people and broken off a piece of me for them to keep." Letters that explain what lips simply can not and understanding to those patient enough to read them word for word.
