I sat there
breathing the secondhand of what I had done
Coughing
Wheezing
Burned
And bleeding.
I will survive.
"Everything I do, is judged.
They mostly get it wrong,
but oh well."
My hands are too cold,
they shake and shiver.
I force the pen into a feeble grip.
I want to escape.
Superficial happiness fills no voids.
Maybe I am
a kitten caught in a tree somewhere.
Maybe I am
a damsel in distress.
Is that really so bad?
"I wonder if everything I do,
I do instead,
of something I want to do more...
The question fills my head.
I know there's no grand plan here."
My heart is suprisingly stagnant,
no butterflies or skips.
For years it waited to be moved,
and now it sits -
- alone.
I want to help myself-
I turn to others instead.
Their words express far better
how every day is filled with grief.
I want to be some girl's Ani.
I want to be some guy's POD.
I want to be anyone other than me.
