I wanted to be
a policeman,
a doctor,
a best-selling author.
But I'm too scared,
and I'm too dumb,
and I have nothing to offer.
And the truth is
I'll never amount to anything.
I wanted to go
to the city;
Chicago,
Philly, or Buffalo.
But I'm too broke,
and too busy,
and there's too much that I don't know.
And the truth is
I'll never make it outta here.
I cannot find any kind of
reason for the time to go by.
I am lost, looking for a good
explanation why it's so hard.
I want to see all the
beauty in this world
because I wanna know
where the problems lie,
where the good ones hide,
where the reason why
isn't so hard to find.
But the truth is
I'll never find the answers that I seek.
Because I'll never be brave.
I'll never be good at anything.
I'll never do anything right.
I'll never make it outta here alive.
I fail, fail, fail again.
Fail, fail, fail again.
Fail, fail, fail again.
And I fail again.
YOU ARE READING
The Things We Don't Talk About
Poetry***Trigger Warning: Mental health, mental illness, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, self-harm*** A collection of poems delving into the dark side of the human experience. From high highs to low lows, emotion can be intense. And this collection s...
