Sunday, December 17, 2017

Seven and a Third

how many times do I have to go through,
how often do I have to feel sick,
caught in place like I'm barely alive,
struggle to get out of this state.

count in my head, rhyming abused,
stuck turning that same old trick,
trapped as alone as a poisonous slive,
and feeling like I deserve the fate.

two
six
five
eight

two
six
five
eight

tomorrow promises little new,
trying to make hope by rubbing two sticks,
wanting more than just being alive...
we're all running out of time.

No comments:

Post a Comment