Why do even I write?
I write better than I speak
And yet my words are still weak.
I write to be free, to feel seen,
but in the end I feel so stupid for
thinking my words could strike your heart
like cupid. My anger is only fueled when
I'm ridiculed for trying to express myself,
to someone else. I wonder why, explaining my
emotions feels like I'm crossing dangerous
oceans, but all I could do is sit and cry.
You tell me to get out of my head, but I
can't even get out of bed. I lie here, tossing
and turning, waiting for my eyes to stop
burning. The tears in my eyes stream down
my face, as I pray for your warm embrace.
My fears, will only deepen the
wounds in my fatigued heart,
the ones I've had from the start. To be unheard
is absurd when I'm surrounded by people
who love eachother, but they're
not you. And yet I still write, hoping my sad
words will some day meet your sight.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
