sometimes
I believe I am just made up of pretty words
to fill up expectations
in reality I'm half of what I say
do I know if my intentions come from the heart?
or are they really just to fill up the time,
the fine line between solitude and companionship?
maybe I'm just too cowardice to ever admit that sometimes
within these addled nights
I often tend to hide between sheets of thin linen
as a means to protect myself from my own self wallow.
or maybe I'm just dependent that the company may intrude upon my archaic thoughts.
either way, I cannot be trusted.
not with myself
not with others.
YOU ARE READING
insomnia
PoetryI wish I could drift off like everyone else instead of being awake at the dead of night. Oh no, the silence doesn't haunt me, it's the meaningless echoes that form in my mind. I wish I didn't feel so insignificant seeing as I'm not fully alone. I do...
