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RowanStormPoems
They say "I'm not sure," and they know it's veritable. Cluttered desk--hats and textbooks and papers and earbuds all askew, heart pumping too quick Sitting on a black plastic chair, legs curled up underneath, eyes flickering to The Latehomecomer, stomach unsettled "I'm not sure." of what? head down, eyes searching, mind spinning, lungs catered like coffee at noon "Everything." Supplied lies, shaking hands pouring chamomile tea into a white cup, hoping for-- that too. "Everything?" on their mind is falsified and unknown, twisted skin ruddy, shoes all in a row, nails bitten like marionette "Anything." of confirmation belongs to the stables which blossom with the stench of sweetness and wild, roving insecurity "I'm not sure," they murmur, "what you mean." Precipices are lonely business and so are "People like me," Forks are steel but the mind is molten and rusted in decay "dream of quiet," they laud slick on thin ice of the essay due tomorrow in history on the death of too many Sunglasses are similar to winter waters and lightning spirals in; they are in debt to themselves, in depth of "broken moments." that clash and too much to think               slivers down in silver carcasses of thoughts "Okay, I can't help you." "I know," filters out behind lips of burning iron "I never expected you too." floats down the crowded unfinished                     street. They're not sure of everything and I'm not sure of me. I know it's true.
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Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
What We Know
They say "I'm not sure," and they know it's veritable. Cluttered desk--hats and textbooks and papers and earbuds all askew, heart pumping too quick Sitting on a black plastic chair, legs curled up underneath, eyes flickering to The Latehomecomer, stomach unsettled "I'm not sure." of what? head down, eyes searching, mind spinning, lungs catered like coffee at noon "Everything." Supplied lies, shaking hands pouring chamomile tea into a white cup, hoping for-- that too. "Everything?" on their mind is falsified and unknown, twisted skin ruddy, shoes all in a row, nails bitten like marionette "Anything." of confirmation belongs to the stables which blossom with the stench of sweetness and wild, roving insecurity "I'm not sure," they murmur, "what you mean." Precipices are lonely business and so are "People like me," Forks are steel but the mind is molten and rusted in decay "dream of quiet," they laud slick on thin ice of the essay due tomorrow in history on the death of too many Sunglasses are similar to winter waters and lightning spirals in; they are in debt to themselves, in depth of "broken moments." that clash and too much to think               slivers down in silver carcasses of thoughts "Okay, I can't help you." "I know," filters out behind lips of burning iron "I never expected you too." floats down the crowded unfinished                     street. They're not sure of everything and I'm not sure of me. I know it's true.
#anxiety#depression#work#mental#illness#hard#cope#writing
Written by
RowanStorm
21/Trans Male/United States
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
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