I often hate the way I am. I hate how I can never speak my mind. I hate how I often can’t make up my mind. how is it possible that I feel so lost in something that is only for me. something that is me. desiring to sprinkle flowers, but soaking them into a puddle. longing to float in the serene pool of wisdom, but offending drowning in a tsunami of confusion. struggling to take breaths, to rise above the storm, but just settling on the stone cold bottom. it’s dark and it’s heavy. where do I go from here?
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 2:41 PM UTC
I often hate the way I am. I hate how I can never speak my mind. I hate how I often can’t make up my mind. how is it possible that I feel so lost in something that is only for me. something that is me. desiring to sprinkle flowers, but soaking them into a puddle. longing to float in the serene pool of wisdom, but offending drowning in a tsunami of confusion. struggling to take breaths, to rise above the storm, but just settling on the stone cold bottom. it’s dark and it’s heavy. where do I go from here?
Request permission to use this poem