I lie on the bed.
The ceilings my friend, again.
I want to do something, one thing, multiple things, everything.
But I can't bring myself to do anything
but stare at this ceiling and listen to music through broken earbuds and hope nobody comes in my room to question my efforts because I'm just to tired to explain.
And I wish for the motivation
to forget the exasperation and the questions.
I just want to be able to enjoy life again.
But instead of that I've been finding myself wishing
in the middle of the day,
or when I've just gotten up.
An unsaid pray, a plead,
I'm tired of this mess up.
I find myself wishing I could just sleep.
And forget it all for a while.
Sorry, this one isn't much of a poem.
YOU ARE READING
Nobody Was Meant to See
Poetry[Trigger Warning, please be safe when reading] They aren't supposed to know. They aren't meant to read these poems that I'm writing. I've concealed them for a reason. -Shitty poems about how I feel-
