I sit here all alone;
the corners of the walls stare deep inside of me.
They quickly become uninterested with the person that they see.
I look into myself and I find nothing but boxes -
Boxes that have been stored away for a long, long time.
Boxes of anger.
Boxes of boredom.
Boxes of unwanted isolation.
I leave the boxes and feed myself,
trying to fill my empty thoughts,
and the dull feeling of having nothing
but the rain to look forward to.
My stomach becomes full and empty;
all at once.
With nowhere else to go,
I return to my lonely room,
because nothing else is calling me.
Wasting the hours away seems to be my only occupation.
I wish I could open one of my boxes -
open one... then, climb in.
That won't chase my bored little heart away, will it?
No...
That was just another one of my pathetic thoughts.
A perfect example as to why I should place myself in a package,
and ask God to deliver me to another world.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poetry(#12 in Poetry- 3/5/17 |14 in Poetry- 2/28/17 |23 in Poetry- 11/18/16) Have you ever considered picking up a pen and writing to the one you fear most? Well, that's what I've done. When I write to my fears, It's oddly satisfying, because I know that...
