Sitting in the backroom,
where I'm always at,
my emotions seem to consume
my will to go and chat
with those outside of this tomb.
I feel like such a rat!
It's like this room's my costume,
decor against the matte.
Can someone come and exhume
this coffin where I'm sat?
Maybe then I'll finally bloom
and grow past where I'm at.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
