No space.
No room to run.
No room for truth.
Why, there's barely any room to exhale!
The bombs of mistakes are being left on the floor.
Someone must pick them up before they explode.
How come I have to pick them up
when they aren't mine?
No space.
No room for healing.
No room for peace.
No room for growth.
I make an attempt to change,
but you don't change.
You see the wrong.
How can one grow when one refuses to change within?
Why must I take fault for mistakes I didn't make?
It isn't possible.
No one can live like that
and grasp full sanity and contentment.
No one.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poetry(#12 in Poetry- 3/5/17 |14 in Poetry- 2/28/17 |23 in Poetry- 11/18/16) Have you ever considered picking up a pen and writing to the one you fear most? Well, that's what I've done. When I write to my fears, It's oddly satisfying, because I know that...
