The words used to flow so freely
Like a never ending torrent
They spilled themselves onto the paper
And my thoughts never ceased to end
But now I find that the words are running dry
They don't hold as much power as they used to
What was once a bottomless well
Has diminished to only a mere droplet
I guess it has something to do
With the cage of inertia I seem to be trapped in
Suicide is constantly running through my mind
But I want to live for the few people I have
I don't know what to do
And my mind is numb
The words I used to find solace in
Are taking away my hope
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--
