Writers Muse
Overdose
I don’t fit in. I am the ugliest of weeds among all the weeds themselves.
Things that don’t matter and things that do: I manage to mess them up just alike.
I thought this was over; that period in my life took place years ago.
I am not supposed to be the same anymore.
Yet here I am.
The same as I have always been.
Awkward and alone: Unfit and not pretty.
Even when things are supposed to be right they turn out wrong.
I am supposed to have it better, remember?
After all I did, all I have done I am supposed to happy now, isn’t that right?
But I’m not; not in the slightest…not even remotely.
The itch inside my veins is dying to reach the peek.
To burn through my skin and bleed, bleed, bleed.
I want to cut and bleed; to pick at my scabs and laugh.
I hate this, I hate this all.
I am so tired.
Pardon me while I go overdose.