sometimes i think i should drop it all off
to the point where i stay hidden
from 8 o'clock at night to 8 o'clock on the following night
i live like a monk, a prisoner, a self exiled man
i eat nothing and barely drink
piss in a bottle while i'm at it and consider drinking it
recycling or something
it's all coming down and then up yet again
right there and then in these small moments
trapped in my own bedroom
front door locked
trapped in my own mind
mouth shut low breaths
there's nothing i'd wish more by that point
but to end it
end it
end it
and start it all all over again
YOU ARE READING
Words that sting
PoetryA collection of 10 poems written on napkins, to avoid uttering the words that sting.
