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I feel sickly,
I feel sick
My legs tremble wildly,
And my arms shiver,
I can feel my lungs, liver,
My fingers don't deliver
A proper, poetic
Kind of late message.

I'm like a dog -- dirty, wet,
Dragging its tongue
On glass, beyond which
Is what caught my eye.
I can see through it but
Nothing more --
For the spit left by me
Dries out soon, as will
Its smell.

My stomach hurts
As if it'd weigh in,
And presses itself.

My thighs ache
And my thin, weak arms
Dart towards the pillows
I'm losing my breath in,
To embrace them.
I'd cry myself in them so that
The cliche might as well be complete,
But that is far beyond my power.

I lost myself
Once I lost you.
You know it but
Everyone's got his own
Share of hardship.

My fingers shiver as if
I'd text my executioner,
Pathetic, worthless,
And in dim heart I talk
To my regrets.

Of course you can ignore me.
Read my message in the notifications tray
Then slide them away.

When first writing this utter cesspool, I broke everything into lines such that it might as well look poetic, but what'd have the point? For I know, whatever the fuck's in my heart, it is inherently unpoetic.

It's covered in mud
And in the hope of change,
For whatever the fuck that means.

Fuck, how I wish these lines would be outstanding,
How I wish they'd feel poetic,
Or be sung, both which would be
Quite possible --
Were I not an incompetent fuck.

I'm broken, eaten away at
By countless shit to which
My circumstances opppse,
But at least the time reads 4:20 (in the morning),
And I got that going for me,
Which is nice.

I skim and graze through this poem
With my tired, lagging-behind eyes;
How the utter fuck did I write
This much?

My sleeplessness, all my unslept nights
Whom I lost count,
My despair and disarray,
Dig trenches in me.
My dreams crumble in them
Into sand, through which
I sift, looking for God knows what.
Maybe I just do that
So that mom thinks I'm actually,
For once, doing something useful.

I'm not.

In palms smelling of sauce
And garlic I held my head;
This won't be my last loss,
I'm too young to feel dead.

If you're reading this, I'm sorry;
I made up my mind.
   Everybody can be saved.

Coroana de steleCitește această povestire GRATUIT!