"You don't talk much, do you?"
To love and care for, to live and let be,
Are all things that are natural to me.
Yet my lungs fail to harbor the breath,
To voice my true emotions in depth.
Demeanor timid and confidence meek,
I prefer combustion than to speak.
A victim of glares and silent judgement,
The torture seems to never relent.
Therefore, I am imprisoned by my mind,
Caged by these bars I hide behind,
Molded of senseless neuroticy,
Concerning what others think of me.
👁 3💬 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.