THE PROBLEM WASN'T THE SILENCE OR THE DARK. THE PROBLEM WASN'T THE LONELINESS OR THE PAIN. THE PROBLEM...WASN'T A CLICHE.
THE SUN MOCKED ME AND TOOK WHAT WAS MINE. TO PAY FOR THE DAY, HE SAID, I WILL TAKE WHAT I FIND. AND HE STOLE THE LAST LIGHT IN ME AND SAID I WOULD BE FINE.
BUT I WASN'T, I NEVER WAS.
I KNOW MY WORDS HURTS AND MY MIND IS CONFUSED. I KNOW I SHUT DOWN AND BLOW OUT THE FUSE. I KNOW MY FINGERS ARE PAINTED IN HATE AND THAT WHETHER OR NOT I AM SELFLESS DETERMINES MY FATE.
BUT I DON'T CARE, I HAVEN'T IN A LONG TIME.
THE PROBLEM WASN'T THE SUN OR THE PIERCING LIGHT OF DAY. THE PROBLEM WASN'T THE BLAME OR THE HATE. THE PROBLEM...
THE PROBLEM WAS ME.
YOU ARE READING
Wasteland Deity
PoetryA collection of poems, short stories, thoughts, etc. Trigger warning.
