These days hum
as they pass me by,
barely breathing in
the rustic air
and supplying my body
with the nutrients
it demands.
I think part of me is
slowly dying,
no longer trying
because I pick at pieces of
myself
and I shrivel up
forget to bother
with the rest.
My bed is not
a comfort anymore,
my life has become
my coffin.
YOU ARE READING
The Words We Repeat
PoetryA small collection of poetry speaking about the same thing in various different ways.
