This cold, dead winter consumes my soul,
It eats my flesh,
It rots my organs from the inside.
It leaves me a hollow shell of what I used to be.
I am no longer representative of a living being,
I am not living at all.
I am brittle bones barely held together,
A skeleton at breaking point.
(-Margaret Atwood wrote "I feel buried". I am buried and the pressure of this make-believe soil is immense)
YOU ARE READING
Death by Words: A Selection of Poetry
PoetryA collection of poetry written by me (that, as always, demonstrates my mental deterioration and inner dialogue).
