My tiny lips tremble
While a tear falls down my cheek
Screaming "I'm so fucking tired
Of nobody listening to me."
They ask me a question
And when I give them a reply
I find their ears are deaf
And they can't meet my eyes.
I'm so tired of being alone--
Please, isn't my misery enough?
As soon as I feel the hope of help
That flickering flame is snuffed.
Sometimes I can feel a thousand arms
But if I reach for them they'll break.
If only half the people knew
Their empathy was fake.
YOU ARE READING
Stygian. Stagnant. Solitary.
PoetryDarkness. Stillness. Loneliness. Three hells, amassed within the contents of a human skull to torture the mind. Artistically speaking, they are the kerosene that keeps the fire of poetry alive. Consciously, they're traumatically destructive.
