lacking concept of time and reality,
the chill of anxiety has never felt more real.
a 368-day blur
laced with reminiscence of happier times
fogs my vision;
autopilot drives me into an emotional telephone pole.
poison does not graze
my stomach nor my lungs,
but instead my heart and head
receive the effects of your words.
you pour them down my throat like nectar, no
what you said choked me like tar, no
it couldn’t have
because not a single sound escaped your lips
that was directed towards me;
but is that not the point?
some say the unspoken conversations
are the ones that tear us to
****** mutilated shreds.
yours only left me
forsaken
writing this mess of a poem;
yet another silent interaction
that will never
cross your mind.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
lacking concept of time and reality,
the chill of anxiety has never felt more real.
a 368-day blur
laced with reminiscence of happier times
fogs my vision;
autopilot drives me into an emotional telephone pole.
poison does not graze
my stomach nor my lungs,
but instead my heart and head
receive the effects of your words.
you pour them down my throat like nectar, no
what you said choked me like tar, no
it couldn’t have
because not a single sound escaped your lips
that was directed towards me;
but is that not the point?
some say the unspoken conversations
are the ones that tear us to
****** mutilated shreds.
yours only left me
forsaken
writing this mess of a poem;
yet another silent interaction
that will never
cross your mind.
you were never there
