this is not a poem #3

I used to
find comfort in words
and words used to flow
so effortlessly

now sweat breaks
on my forehead and
I choke on my thoughts
as I lie in bed

and how many times
a day am I to
tell me I’m okay

how are these haunted
words once innocent
to cure my
crushed and fragile soul

they hurt and they say
it is good
say I write better
when I don’t think straight

but what do they know
do they wonder how
hard breathing can be

is it just me who
thinks about breathing
such an awful lot
you’d say it’s such a

useless thought

how dare you offend
my dear thoughts
there’s no comfort in
my pile of words

but I’ll say
whoever told you
breathing was easy
was a fucking liar

Can you tell I’m not feeling well? I don’t know if it’s the stupid cold or the wisdom tooth which suddenly decided to remind me that it exists. Sometimes I wish I could crawl out of my head. And then the thought scares me. And it goes on and on…

7 thoughts on “this is not a poem #3

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