(11/14)Mature

They're asking what's wrong.
They need to understand, to help,
but I don't know nor understand
myself.
I tell them I can't cope,
with the day to day, mundane, banal,
but there's more,
but I've talked about them before,
I can't resolve them.
I've buried them,
and got on with t,
I don't know are they part of it.
They say I have prospects
but I don't think it'll work out,
it never has.
Tomorrow I'll probably leave,
no better,
only worse.

The End

5 comments about this poem Feed