My brain hurts
But who could ever fix what's in my head?
So I start somewhere easier:
My hands,
Chapped and aching.
I pull out my tube of lotion
Still unused
Too afraid for it to ever be gone it sat
And wasted.
Now it helps to heal
But I feel it can do more.
The tube mimics acryllics
So I take a piece of old homework.
With marker I mix and stain
Color blends and now I realize
I have no brush -
I momentarily consider my hair and the blade
But outstretch my fingers instead
Which seem to lie as numb as I feel.
I try to find a face
Even a simple glimpse of resemblance
But the color escapes me
And my thoughts fade away
Leaving me and awareness.
Although my hands may be healing
I seem to be left worse off than when I begun.
YOU ARE READING
Up Too Late
Poetry//Hopefully// my best poetry, random stuff from times I can't sleep and need to leave my mess of a mind
