Critical of himself, he stares in the mirror.
Poking at his ribs, wishing he was thinner.
He doesnt like his mind, his body, or his face.
But he continues with his life. His happiness, so fake.
He doesn't get close to girl or boy.
Sure he'll disappoint, irritate, annoy.
He goes to work and earns his pay.
Drags himself up, each and every day.
He continues the circle of existing in sorrow.
With the hope that there wont be a tomorrow.
Nobody sees the burns on his wrists.
None of the hurt that he self inflicts.
He's alone in a world where everybody seems the same.
And it comes to a point where he can no longer deal with the pain.
He pours the pills to his hands and looks into the mirror.
Gulps them all down, wishing he was thinner.
He had taken a path that shouldn't have been there.
Only one person had to stand up and care.
Had somebody offered a smile and an ear,
Remained persistent, even if it took years,
A continued friendly gesture, or warm conversation,
Could have given us all one less unnecessary cremation.
YOU ARE READING
Darkest Days|| Poetry and Prose
PoetryIt's all in the title. Second book of poetry and Prose as the other was getting a little full.
