Am I living or am I just existing?
Would anyone look for me if I went missing?
Sometimes the only time I feel tranquil is standing in the middle of pouring rain. A loud room where sound drowns out the pain.
I push away and shut down, but some how ..
I'm an open book. Written in an old cryptic dead language everyone overlooks.
Addicted to the way this deep void feels.
To me if it's not disappointment it can't be real?
It's all I've ever known.
The darkness surrounding
is the only place that I can call home.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Side Effects
PoetryBroken poetry. Imperfect and I don't care to be anything different. My vices, my struggles.
