Poems, Volume 1

Broken Mirrors

I feel as though I'm

sinking,

falling

into myself.

Is that possible?

I don't know, I don't

know, but I'm

shaking,

turning

right into sand,

and I'll slip through

my own fingers,

before they

disintegrate,

too.

I'm not great with

words, and I

know that now,

so what is

a good way

to explain

that

lying around,

lazing about-

is addictive now?

And I can't help but

wonder why it is that I

can't think straight, and I'm

watching myself

washing myself

down

a grime-ridden,

clogged, smelly,

anxiety-riddled

drain.

Isn't it sad

that it's come to the point where

the thing I fear the most is

myself?