The mind is an organ.
Like any other.
And mine is sick.
And it is killing me.
The medicine will work.
And then I will feel better.
And then it will fail.
So I will want to die.
I changed. Just like you wanted me to.
I stepped out of my comfort zone.
I held my tongue.
So why is it not enough?
I just assume you don't like that my mind is ill.
After all,
Who would care enough about someone who has wished to disappear for the last 7 years?
YOU ARE READING
From a Crow's Beak: Writing in Passing
PoetryWriting that I've come up with when my emotions push me to create. This is your warning that a lot of these are depressing.
