It seems to me that
No matter what words I choose
And countless stanzas I use
I feel no different than how I did yesterday.
I feel torn, confused, and lost
Like any other ******* teenager out there
So, I thought poems could ventilate my fears
And somehow halt my internal flowing tears
But I was wrong.
It seems to me that
No matter what topics I discuss
Everybody I talk to turns the other way
As if I've got nothing important at all to say.
A friend, a foe, a love, a hate
Why should I think my words are great?
If everybody I write about dissolves in the end
Does it even matter if I care for the poems I tend?
It seems to me that
No matter what words I choose
And countless stanzas I use
I cannot artistically express that I'm done with poetry.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
It seems to me that
No matter what words I choose
And countless stanzas I use
I feel no different than how I did yesterday.
I feel torn, confused, and lost
Like any other ******* teenager out there
So, I thought poems could ventilate my fears
And somehow halt my internal flowing tears
But I was wrong.
It seems to me that
No matter what topics I discuss
Everybody I talk to turns the other way
As if I've got nothing important at all to say.
A friend, a foe, a love, a hate
Why should I think my words are great?
If everybody I write about dissolves in the end
Does it even matter if I care for the poems I tend?
It seems to me that
No matter what words I choose
And countless stanzas I use
I cannot artistically express that I'm done with poetry.
