poems

Words flow on paper with some ink,
Staining the paper black,
But I still can’t put in words what exactly I think,
When I can, I will come back.

There’s just this feeling, kind of sad,
Like sunshine and loneliness,
But it isn’t directly bad,
Just something on my chest.

When you’ve figured out your thoughts and dreams,
When you’ve planned out your ideal life,
But then again, so far it seems,
Much closer is the knife.

When books accept you more,
Than anyone ever has,
And all the things you’ve done before,
Seem distant, beyond stained glass

When people live with happiness,
And you can’t understand,
Existing in silent loneliness,
Getting carried away like sand

When nothing seems to feel quite right,
When something’s always off,
And you think about it every night,
Because just breathing’s not enough.