I'm sad.
I don't want to
be poetic about
it, and compare my
tears to the
drops of
rain before the
storm, or how this
weight inside my
chest shortens my
breaths and
makes my
heart work
harder,
beat
harder.
I'm done with trying to
write everything
away, like paper can
keep my emotions
prisoner when I
shut the book.
Why does my
throat tighten,
and my
eyes feel heavy
with grief like lead?
Why can't I
shake the
dread and the
worry, the belief that
there won't be
a better tomorrow?
When will I
be at rest?
When will I
be asleep at two
in the morning, instead of
nursing my
demons at the
mother's breast of
my mind,
too tired to
wean then from the
****** that
drains me?
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
I'm sad.
I don't want to
be poetic about
it, and compare my
tears to the
drops of
rain before the
storm, or how this
weight inside my
chest shortens my
breaths and
makes my
heart work
harder,
beat
harder.
I'm done with trying to
write everything
away, like paper can
keep my emotions
prisoner when I
shut the book.
Why does my
throat tighten,
and my
eyes feel heavy
with grief like lead?
Why can't I
shake the
dread and the
worry, the belief that
there won't be
a better tomorrow?
When will I
be at rest?
When will I
be asleep at two
in the morning, instead of
nursing my
demons at the
mother's breast of
my mind,
too tired to
wean then from the
****** that
drains me?
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