Five Hundred-Forty
This sadness is turned up so loudly it hurts.
It hurts my stomach,
my chest,
my shoulders,
my head.
I can't stop crying.
I should never have been born.
I'm sorry cruel world,
I am but a crooked soul.
👁 4💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
If you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone.
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988, 24/7. Crisis Text Line — text HELLO to 741741.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
Comments are closed for this poem.