my hands
are on fire
from trying
to hold myself up
everyday
without
a reward
or purpose.
does the end
even exist?
or are my thoughts
bending the neurones
in my brain
to an
unexplainable state
of paranoia?
are my opinions
worth anything?
surely,
my charred hands will never
possibly mould society
out of its twisted
rituals and assets.
i will just lay
here
and let my hands
burn
until they become
blackened,
and dead.
what else can i do anyway?
YOU ARE READING
flecks of charisma
Poetry(old bad poetry don't read pls ahhh) flecks of charisma is a quintessential guide to not knowing how you're feeling, not knowing how to deal with it, but knowing how to adjust your life around it. some days are tough and some days can elongate into...
