"grownups" poems
when the milk light steals into my eyes—hey it’s grownups’ goodmorning
—I let your elbow go and then I pull it back again, soft metonymy (i
sometimes remember
when you’re awake, and abashed I keep it quiet
how you’re my favorite part
—of what?—not applicable, but this morning I remember
when your eyes are closed, and I let you feel how much I
feel you in my ribs when you’re all around me)
the punctuation of the days was always mine and I
couldn’t breathe as well without keeping the dark
for me just me
and still my eyelids weigh me down a little but
I don’t mind
hey goodmorning
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
Cold beer,
a long necked bottle held to my forehead
and in my throat,
to my lips,
so relief comes both ways,
glad for it,
the double of the cool,
helps the day of troubled nothingness,
and the long necked bottle makes it
worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait
can't drink in the river park,
don't cotton to brown paper bags,
do it anyway cause the East River
tides me over on its way
thru the Verrazano Narrows,
bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow,
a devil may care attitude en contrôle
this troubadour opened the store at 700am
but not a one came looking for a song,
but the mail came reliable,
with dues due,
promises that need keeping,
and other items,
what the grownups call responsibilities
June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats
ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors,
and their larger than bathtub size toys,
turning containers, freighters, into docile boys
who do as they are told on their way to ports far
there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon
paving stones that are so nyc for me,
here pedestrian! follow your designated path
here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived
but I take to the railing,
where Isaac-bound and mesmerized,
I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface
of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for
where we are bound...
no voice heard from the heavens,
saying Abraham put down that knife,
because I have not passed the test of true belief,
perhaps the river's invitation is my test,
if I should sing another song here,
perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I'm restless like a low-class little nothing. Or a something. Or something, I don’t know. I tried to run away when I was twelve. I kicked puddles, ate a package of crackers, came home. I wish I could come home now. But he doesn’t kick puddles, he kicks the stairs loudly when he’s drunk and can’t walk up. He stains the mattress when he ****** the bed. He calls me from the gas station at 4 am saying “I love you baby, come pick me up.” And I shouldn’t, but I will. Will I? I will. And I really want to come home now, I miss the comfort of my warm bed and your soothing hands and would you make me tea when I am sick? I know I’m older, but let’s please forget. He fights and get cuts and scrapes and scabs and bleeds them onto me and I don’t think it’s gross. I think it’s gross when he tries to make love to me. and it hurts. We are not one, we are two. Making love, the term makes me laugh. It’s called ******* I think. It’s not like in the stories or the movies or the fantasies, ******* But this is what grownups do, right? Smoke cigarettes on street corners and don’t use condoms and eat ecstasy like aspirin and sweat and dance and collapse and come home and cry. Because they used to be the good girls, right? Was I a good one? Oh, no, I really want to come home now. Plane tickets are gold and he is too afraid to fly and too afraid to let go of my arm. The bruises are okay, I like the shape they make. It reminds me of a horror movie. I used to not be able to watch them, I was too young. You won’t be able to sleep, you’d say. But I can’t sleep now and I think I might still be too young. I want to come home now, can I please?
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Aaj ke bacchon mein hi nahin,
Apitu badon mein bhi sanskār,
Naammatr ke bach gaye hain.
Not only in children of the day,
But even the grownups lack it,
Ettiquette is just for namesake.
Andar se wo aadar bhaav gūm,
Aur haan gūm hai satkaar bhi,
Badon ke liye sammān gūm hai.
That feeling of respecting is lost,
And indeed is lost that hospitality,
Elderly are no longer given the place.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
Growing up is hard to do that's why when I was 12 years old I said I would never do it because it is full of heartache and hatred, trouble and lies, what is the point of leading such an unfulfilled life? Now at only 17, I am being catapulted into a world full of life long choices, where one wrong move- one stupid mistake- can ruin my existence. Yet I have so much resistance because I cling to this notion that i will never grow old. Responsibility is for grownups I would shout then...and even now... but the difference is, today I am going to take 5 standardized tests in 2 weeks and visiting a big brick building that will feed my mind and prepare me for "life"... as if I am not already alive. What is "the real world"? Is it not what I have been going through since birth? Why does reality only hit when you're 18 and starving for attention? Silly me, I was under the impression that I am a human being, going through experiences and learning lessons that will fill my soul. but that’s not true after all; I will only be useful when I have a successful career and child at my hip. **** these rules of society. I am a human, a person, an adult. But not because I chose to be one, I was forced into this role that has deteriorated my mind and thrown me into raging fits of anxiety and depression. Yes, high school has been the greatest years of my life... if by "great" you mean emotionally damaging.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
When grownups say
"There is no such thing as magic"
They have forgotten some
Mighty important things
Like
A Ben & Jerry's
Chocolate Fudge Brownie
That you share with friends
Or moments of awe
Or a moment of zen
Or kissing a girl
(Even though she got cooties)
And then she smiles
And giggles
As she kisses you back
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
near three years, nearer to eclipses,
since last scribed here, been there
been loved, mistreated, done my share
of giving beatings, for the deserving,
never been any body’s ****** no starting
now=ever.
men look at me, their eyes self-seducing,
a crook(ed) finger never summoned me
or any self respecting woman of valor,
with a full fist of words, a tongue sharper
than a deli slicer, if looks can **** then
left my fair share of men on the Riviera,
the Hamptons, the Gold Coast, uptown
and way downtown where the cool kids
pretend play @ being prey hunting grownups.
ya, hear your thinking and it’s stinking,
my generated magno-electric vibes that’s
to blame, get this kids! never your fault
being whom you the actual F are, it’s their filters
that ***** their vision, their desires unbidden,
casual dispensed, thinking glory is theirs to share.
my road is not broken, there are signs even I spot,
when the man I crave is nearby, whose calm is not
couched cool, who doesn’t wear his possessions on
his sleeve, one who says adventure, yes, let’s go,
never saying when, for the only when is what both crave,
the loving of immediacy of “right now,” and add
to that pithy, my name, Brandy, acknowledging it’s
me, just me, he addresses and not some vision that
was crafted by others into an ideal, and ‘because’ is
not sufficient but the perfect rationale, to trust what
your absent father called your *“finely tuned instincts for
human finery, humans who eclipse ordinary stars*”
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
We are grown ups
Full grown *** adults
Making out in the front seat of your car at the edge of a crowded parking lot in front of a high school where mothers are picking up their daughters from their first homecoming dance
You know, like grownups do
But that’s not really what we are
Not here, not all day
Today we’ve been movie characters
We’ve been comic strip accidents
We’ve been fairy tale destinies
The clock is striking midnight soon
This fidgeter’s bracelet still doesn’t fit over these fat fingers
Come morning you’ll be back in the castle
Where princesses belong
Stupid fairy god mothers always ******* up a perfectly good nursery rhyme
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
the prophets and all the grownups were right
when they said that 17 was a beautiful age.
it is the age of falling in love,
when we are still young enough to hang onto a thread
but old enough to know better.
17 is being on the verge of entering
into the dreaded age of responsibility,
but wanting something more
than what this youth permits.
17 is a transitional time,
when the heart may know not its place
but what it beats for.
17 is a strange time
of learning and growing and being,
and i suppose we will all always be
who we were at seventeen.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
a genuine smile is a very rare thing to come by
there's the hello, i'm being polite smile,
the fake smile you give grownups when they talk to you,
the photograph smile,
the smile you give a bad joke in order to avoid offending the teller,
the awkward smile exchanged between two people who haven't crossed paths in a while,
the phony smile put on only to convince the rest of the world that everything's okay,
and many more smiles that seem almost like obligations
but a real smile only comes from one thing
that is,
love
and i can't feel it.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
your lips were stained red
the first time
you ever drank from a big girl’s cup
you know
the one without a lid
and your mother was so proud
when you still bathed with your little sister
because you were young
and it was okay
she decided to taste the grape shampoo
because it smelled so sweet
and so it should taste the same
and she was curious
and so were you
but she grimaced
and choked
and even cried
so you thought that maybe
it wasn't such a good idea
so you didn't taste it
and remember the time you scraped your knees
because you were trying to be like all of the boys
and so you climbed up the tree at the park
just to prove that you weren't fragile
and you didn't even cry
not even a tear
so they decided you must not have cooties
you weren't like the other girls
you were one of them
and you were the exception
you wore those scars with pride
your lips were stained red
the first time you tasted wine
you were at communion
with your best friend
who called herself a bad catholic
at the age of just thirteen
when your sister was twelve
and just learning about
how smoking was bad for you
she decided to steal a cigarette from your mother
because all of the grownups did it
and you were sixteen and curious
because all of the cool kids did it
and when she coughed
and hacked
and ****** in another drag
you thought that maybe
it wasn't such a good idea
but you both did it anyways
and remember that same year
you wanted to impress all of the boys
so you went to your first party
and it was nothing like in the movies
but you wanted to prove that you were like the other girls
so you drank yourself into a haze
and you slipped into one of the bedrooms
with a faceless stranger
and you didn't even cry
but you wanted to
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Thanks for the meatballs ma'
On a mission
Be back soon
Took a huge jump on my bike, not a moment too soon
Got struck by lightning and bit by a raccoon
Next thing I knew
I'd taken to the sky
Swept up in a bubble
Passed the Hubble
Made a wish
As I streaked across the sky
And landed on the moon
Found the moondust powdery
Heartbreakingly abandoned and alone
Felt it caress the palm of my hand
Smooth as purest silk
Gave it love
A home
Made it a part of my fingerprint
And as I did
Sprang this wonderfully innocent music
Harmonies of such clarity and void of lies
Brought tears of sadness to my young eyes
As I laid them on this blue marble that houses our skies
Still bleeding itself dry
Spinning faithfully on the blackboard of life
Such grace
This wonderfully complicated dance of life
Never asked for anything in return
Except maybe the answer to a burning question
Why all this grownup warmongering?
Why?
When in the midst of all this hate and terror
Every kid in the world is born
With a natural instinct
To play
To laugh
To explore
And to celebrate
The precious gift of their newborn life.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6-year-old.
The tax base is lower.
I want to be six again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think it's
the best place in the world to eat.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle
and make waves with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms; are better than money,
because you can eat them.
I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.
I long for the days when life was simple.
When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know, and you didn't care.
I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.
I want to be happy, because I don't know what should make me upset.
I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much.
I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and
abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.
I want to be six again.
I want to think that everyone, including myself,
will live forever, because I don't know the concept of death.
I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and
be overly excited by the little things again.
I want television to be something I watch for fun,
not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.
I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting
will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.
I want to be six again.
I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather
being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.
I want to be naive enough to think that if I'm happy, so is everyone else.
I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet
and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I'm looking for.
I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting
the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the car.
I want to wonder what I'll do when I grow up and what I'll be,
who I'll be and not worry about what I'll do if this doesn't work out.
I want that time back.
I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes,
or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight
with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together
and what I can possibly use for the snowman's mouth.
I want to be six again.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
They grew up holding hands playing on the sand,
But what the grownups warned they couldn’t understand.
One day you will have to part when grown up by the sea,
Nothing lasts forever, something’s are not meant to be.
Never kiss on the lips while holding hands so tight,
Maybe on the cheek, but never late at night.
Then came the day while playing round the pools,
She looked at him and whispered, let us forget about the rules.
As their lips touched she remembered what her father used to say,
“Never kiss an urchin my little mermaid, futures will depend”,
“You are destined for the ocean not here with your friend”.
“Just one kiss and you will lose your crown and thrown”,
“While standing close together you'll slowly turn to stone”.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 8:36 AM UTC
Strange, strange, strange.
When you young and especially a teenager.
And all negative level at you.
Teens this.
Teens that.
While many adults misses thee big picture.
For the same things you get accused of by news and others.
You find many adults doing them more.
Texting and driving.
What teen?
Hadn't see many grownups break this rule?
Especially law enforcers and politicians.
But you a teenager.
The pick on group.
Research dwn through times.
And you'll see various teens through the decades been torn apart.
It's tough being a teenager.
Just wait to you become an adult.
And find that the problem of teenaging will remain the same.
Adults needs a certain group to blame.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
Patience
never saw a baby that didn't
eventually
learn how to walk,
how to talk.
but I have seen, still do,
children who became adults,
but not grownups,
still ******* their thumbs.
don't blame the parents.
don't blame the child.
don't blame the idiotcreators,
pseudo-educators.
blame me.
always take the easiest course
when assigning blame.
Yet cherish them
tho oft they err,
have we not all,
stumbled and
extended hand
beseeching help?
let us learn
for they,
my blood
one and all,
and I call them
by one name,
each and every,
Mine.
------------------------
Hint: if you are thinking of taking your parents along for your ride, read this. Better yet, give it to them.
"And she taught me that my children
are not truly mine.
They don’t belong to me;
they’ve simply been entrusted to me.
They are a gift life gave to me,
but one that I must
one day give back to life.
They must grow up
and go away and
that is as it should be."
Charles M. Blow
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
sensual subtlety or the subtlety of sensuality
(HOW does size matter?)
<•>
*as always the title comes first,
embalming the mind so it may voyage onto unwritten waters,
over boundaries so the provocateur provoked may safely return,
avoiding evoking anti-frieze cannonade fire
some can disable with swinging fist,
a chopping arm on an exposed neck,
a swift kick to the semi-privates
but I can do same, inflicting immobilization
with a single solitary itty bitty
pinky figuring finger
no random boast, no hoax, not chest beating,
just a fact ma’am, nothing but the facts
the sensual subtlety of the delicate
is overpowering and irresistible
making grownups revert
into laughing crying out loud babies
the subtlety of sensuality pink’d exploding exploration,
the intoxicating tiny tingling subtle and without equal,
kingdoms have fallen, paintings and poems, art all kinds,
instigated and in eye sockets permanently inserted,
history redirected
know I will no be telling details,
the whose and where,
the why and surely not the
how, not here anyway
so when you tell me in raw fashion
size matters most definitely
in the matters of the heart
or the physicality
whole heartedly agree
waving my littlest pinky finger
watching you wavering
until you’ve learned the lesson
it’s the how*
not the how big
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
a genuine photograph taken by a relation,
of Wonder Woman commandeering a
Manhattan avenue by aft. daylight,
leading children of the neighborhood and
their guardian angels, the NYPD, in a
rousing calisthenics warmup routine,
for it’s the day of witches, goblins, masquerading,
and pre-internet, nice, sweet trolls no older
than six years of age, Wonder Woman too, the rigors of an
evening of search and recovery, collecting the
well gotten treasure ***** found by early dusk’s
s l o w l y disappearing light, amidst stunned,
aimless wandering adults
and miscellaneous grownups,
All
wonting & wondering:
is innocence still a thing?
Jan 17, 2024
Jan 17, 2024 at 1:03 PM UTC
In the ill-lit room singed with ovens’ heat
Swift hands deftly turn wheat ***** sweet
The air exudes a smell of pulpy soft taste
Blended with the odd fragrance of sweat!
Here reigns under the tin shed eternal night
As if by some design is forbidden daylight
Roll out confectionaries crisp and light
To fill the mouths with salivary delight!
Bread, cake, cookie and cherry bun
Kneading them in the heat is no fun
The bakers’ faces glow warm and red
Faster they must go before they rest their head!
The delicious stuff are relished by kids and grownups
They savor the flavor with their hot morning cups
Do they ever pause or give it a thought
How those laboring bodies in the heat rot!
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
3am....boom!
Door slams, feet pounding on stairs.
4am....boom!
My household remains asleep, Only me and my cares.
They come in all colors,
different flavors,
unique fears,
No status quo,
different walks,
All sorts of careers
The business owners,
The urban campers,
The highschool dropouts,
Grownups still in Pampers.
Theres even the alumni,
with their bumper sticker,
All taking a medicine,
that only makes them sicker.
All the while, the thoughts harbored within-
Makes me think, this wall we share, may as well be paper thin.
I smell the smell,
Made a call with a cell,
No help from the ones dressed in blue
Just me and myself, seeing it through.
The war is mine,
The battles they own,
Let it end, before this wall we share,
Becomes their gravestone
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 9:26 AM UTC
my pre -Christmas poem for 2014
Christmas Teachings
Making out my list while sitting in my room
Thanksgiving is almost here and Christmas will follow soon.
Thinking about the decorations that I plan on putting out
Because decorating for Christmas is what I’m all about.
I love to see the children s smiles and hear their comments too
Of what they’re wishing for Christmas and what they plan to do.
Most are dreaming of bicycles and toys of every kind
While the parents are keeping track and watching every dime.
We were once those same children who waited patiently
To see what Santa would put underneath our Christmas tree.
To children – Christmas is of toys and being out of school
Yet they’re not being taught how Christmas came to be
Of how a child called JESUS CHRIST set mankind free.
If they was to take CHRIST out of Christmas
There would be no holiday and children would have no gifts
Or toys with which to play.
The birth of CHRIST is the reason we celebrate this day
The reason children get toys and the grownups kneel to pray.
He was born in a manger in a bed made of hay when the three kings came
They all knelt down to pray.
He was born the king of kings of that there is no doubt
He showed the world Love and Peace and that’s
What Christmas is about?
Love one another and share the Christmas joy
This is what we were taught by this little boy.
© LRAMS
I
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
There she sat, on the slide
looking for a place to hide
an adult among children at play
yet a child around grownups she'd stay.
She felt very often sad
and most of the time just mad
at the world and everyone
she couldn't remember when happiness had gone.
She wanted to do so much
conquer the world and such
her diary full of imagination
searching for some sort of salvation.
Confused and scared around boys
they were mainly just a lot of noise
a refuge in books she would find
allowing her to leave the world behind.
There she sat on the slide
Remembering the tears she'd cried
when she was just a young girl
trying hard to find her whirl
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 2:27 AM UTC
Dear 2020,
I don’t really know why I’m writing to you today. Technically, I could talk to many different people. There’s Mom, Bonnie, and the internet suicide chats. Honestly, I don’t think any of them would understand what I would say, though. Mom is best at hugs, Bonnie likes to tell me to read papers, and I don’t think the internet suicide chat is right for me, because they wouldn’t be able to fix me. So I thought, if its okay, then I would talk to you again.
If you listen to the song on Youtube called Her Last Words, then you might notice how similar that song is to these letters. That's because I like thinking that when I die- No. I just thought, The people who love me will find and read these, but that's a lie, isn’t it? Because if I really thought people loved me, I wouldn’t be here writing to you about my own suicide. So no. If I **** myself, I will probably just upload all of these letters onto Hello Poetry.
I’m just feeling really down. Nothing is working out for me, as usual. I don't hate anything anymore. I’m just really, really tired. And I don’t want to be here anymore. But unlike school, and people, and nature, I can’t escape my mind and this world. No matter how much I want to. I’m trapped here. I can never escape unless I die. And as much as I want to, I can’t.
I never want to leave my room. I don’t care if I starve here, I have water and would finally be skinny, right? I never want to leave my room. I never want to go to the doctor, take my medicine, see anyone in person. Because I’m actually sick of people, as much as they scare me. I can just text them, or whatever. People always like me better over text anyways. And I’m so sick of these doctors and grownups trying to fix me. Have you ever thought that maybe I’d rather just die myself, then live on as some drugged-happy maniac, some distorted version of me?
But, I mean, who the **** am I anyway? I’m not even dead yet and everyone has already forgotten me. Even myself. And I’m falling apart piece by piece. I feel like at any second, I could simply fall apart at the seams and tumble onto the ground.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I wish I would die.
I realized I’m not even writing to the receiver of this letter. I’m not really writing to myself in 2020, am I? No, I’m writing to absolutely no one, and hoping that someone will read this because I am dead.
And this weekend, I’m not going to be able to be who Machaela wants me to be, am I? I’m just going to a pre-skeleton, sitting there quietly, thinking of all the wrong things, saying too little, and feeling too much. I’m sorry, I don’t really know why I started writing this letter to you. It’s been completely pointless, and I don’t really have anything to say. I’ve had to talk to so many people, saying the same things so often that I have completely run out of anything new or interesting or surprising. I don’t want to be with others, I want someone. But I Don’t want to be alone, I want to be by myself. I want a hug, but I want a specifically perfect best-friend, one who’s always there for me and would have no idea what to do if I was gone, to be the one to hug me.
I really wish I could die.
I really
Really
Really
Really
Really
Really
Really
Wish I could die.
Sincerely,
H. R. S.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC