Static.
(So... I like to call myself a writer, even though I'm an amateur in every possible sense of the word. But I'm looking for some feedback, so I'm gonna go ahead and share anyway. I apologize in advanced. Yeah.)
Static.
I have these days sometimes
where the sky is sinking,
a solid entity descending upon me,
covering me in cold and
dousing all the lights.
I have these days sometimes
where the ground beneath my feet
is quicksand instead of concrete,
and with each move that I make,
I'm not going forwards, only down.
I have these days sometimes
where the air is made of ocean;
every breath fills my mouth with salt
and my lungs with water,
so that I'm drowning on dry land.
I have these days sometimes
where I wish the Earth would open up
and swallow me, pull me into her core
and burn me in her magma,
reduce me to ashes and dust.
Static.
I have these days sometimes
where the sky is sinking,
a solid entity descending upon me,
covering me in cold and
dousing all the lights.
I have these days sometimes
where the ground beneath my feet
is quicksand instead of concrete,
and with each move that I make,
I'm not going forwards, only down.
I have these days sometimes
where the air is made of ocean;
every breath fills my mouth with salt
and my lungs with water,
so that I'm drowning on dry land.
I have these days sometimes
where I wish the Earth would open up
and swallow me, pull me into her core
and burn me in her magma,
reduce me to ashes and dust.