The shape of my voice is a cry for help,
and my cranium plays some new melody about survival.
to be something worthy of being alive is to be someone with a purpose,
and mine is wishing I make it till tomorrow.
they say deep breaths
inhale and exhale,
they say to exercise better
rid yourself of the sad vibes and “ohm” the negative energies away.
but I'm only human
and existence is a never-ending gym membership and maybe I think freedom means fat.
I'm a confused 24-year-old with the dreams of an 8-year-old girl,
I wish to grow up
because I will be closer to the end.
as an attempt to continue breathing,
I write to escape.
like this poem,
this is a journal entry
some submission for the list of productive humans,
a to do list for my life.
write, eat, sleep, fuck, complain that this life is shit, write, shower, write, pray death is a long distance friend that'll visit again sometime, write, fuck, sleep, hope it gets better,
Repeat.
Repeat.
© Hope