poem by me

untitled 

i lay in bed so i don't have to try

to correct my posture with a sigh,

but i have to get up every single day

and listen to what everyone has to say.

i know im not too much, but am i?

im left to wonder or to die

all i can do is question while i lay

all my words and gestures throughout the day.

but this isn't about me or my

problems or the fact that i don't lie,

its about a girl, born and passed in may,

who suffocated in her display.

her hands were stained with dye,

she stayed up late every night to cry,

she needed a saviour, if only there was a way

her phone screen didn't crack that day.

and so the shattered glass in her eye

made her see that money can't buy

her a new eye, still she wanted to pay

the bridge a visit, but hey

she couldn't see much, since her eye

was bleeding more than a dead guy.

she stepped on the road, not to play,

but for people to help her on her way.

nobody knew her or why

she never came out the house to say hi

she was always blind, they say

all she saw was black and grey.

(context: it is that damn phone)