I sit here,
writing my poorly worded 'poems'.
crunching, typing, waiting,
waiting.
for inspiration, I dream
I dream of my poems themes being not of my mental health,
my poems dream of my dreams to centre not around the
guilt
blades
weight
the collapsing feeling in my chest,
where I'm gasping for air and scratching at my throat,
toes curled, eyes screwed shut.
I can imagine myself on a boat,
going to an island resort,
carefree.
Or at an airport,
nervous, giddy, happy.
I hold these wishes so dear to my chest,
oh how I want them so bad.
yet I can't even seem to feel my best,
I lay in bed with unbrushed hair,
waiting.
waiting for my dreams to become a reality.
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