Dear Self,
It's a lot lonelier at night.
It's a nightmare ready to unfold and I'm gripping my bed sheets hoping I don't wake up in yet another cold sweat.
The void in my chest seems to grow as I look for something that makes sense.
The words used to hold me as I wept and now,
They stand at arms length and allow me to hold myself.
They watch as the tears fall across my cheeks and they question how much sadness can a person hold.
How much sadness until all you feel is nothing, but hollowness.
Hollowness that resembles a field of grass burned to ash.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
Dear Self,
It's a lot lonelier at night.
It's a nightmare ready to unfold and I'm gripping my bed sheets hoping I don't wake up in yet another cold sweat.
The void in my chest seems to grow as I look for something that makes sense.
The words used to hold me as I wept and now,
They stand at arms length and allow me to hold myself.
They watch as the tears fall across my cheeks and they question how much sadness can a person hold.
How much sadness until all you feel is nothing, but hollowness.
Hollowness that resembles a field of grass burned to ash.
Request permission to use this poem