Loneliness is like living in your own barren wasteland, nothing is there and you're passed by, the atmosphere around you surrounds you like prison bars, and it's haunting. People just walk by like you're not there, like a ghost, even at home there's ignorance, more attention is given to the younger sibling. I barely talk around others I don't know, fearing of judgements handed by their own personal gavel slamming down upon me, disliking me.
I would always roam alone as a child, crunching leaves that have crinkled up and died to the ground, chucking tiny pebbles at a wire to see if I could create a spectacular reaction of sparks from snapping it in half. I talked to myself, laid in the odd feeling grass, and sat on a swing in my tiny backyard by myself. Quiet is a word that suits me, mum and ghostly, too scared to speak to others, even now.
YOU ARE READING
Prose
PoetryIdeas from my mind that I've translated into poetry. Some are bright, some are dark, some personal, and maybe some being sinister, my thoughts flash like lightning, some linger, others terrorize me.
