I read the things I have written
And hate every single thing
What's the point of writing
If I can't write anyway?
I'm just a talentless little shit
Who's never going to go far in life
Don't say you like me
When you know you're telling lies
Just go away
Leave me be
I'll erase what I've written
Would you even care?
I'll burn all my pictures
Pretend they were never there
I'll take my leave
And use this little blade
I don't want to breathe
If I have no future to speak of
Dig that knife deep into my chest
And watch me take my final breath
I'll take these stupid poems
And all these stupid drawings
Pretend I wasn't here
No one would even notice
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth.
Poetry(n) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. Collection no.2 --very old poems--
