Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2017
My head feels like it's constantly on a marathon trying to get to first place, trying to make sense of what's left tangible, the tiniest bit perceivable. I like to try to murmur to my right ear the sweet nothings in which I never even believe-no matter the extent I've dug deep because everything there is in this fragile chest of mine are hundreds of wailing ghosts I have no capability of releasing.

And, I hate it.
jobeth
Written by
jobeth
  347
   Holly D and JWolfeB
Please log in to view and add comments on poems