Maybe it's the voice in your head whispering the well-known fact
Or the eyes on you, watching and judging, unaware of their impact
Nevertheless, your head is kept high
Acting as though those eyes and mouths aren't daggers
Chopping your heart and mind into tiny insignificant pieces
Holding your very essence captive
Orchestrating your own demise
Permeating that fragile thing you call a mind
Seeing and listening and absorbing
Isolating yourself because
Surely, there has never been a place for you.
YOU ARE READING
UNTITLED
PoetryA burden-free place to store my short works. Although it has a mature tag, I think anyone could read it. If you stumble on it and decide to take a peek... Have a good read. Without my consent, no one has the right or permission to repurpose or repos...
