They say I am slow at everything.
They shout,
They push dry leaves into my throat,
They say I won’t make it in life.
But they don’t ask;
They don’t ask why I'm slow at everything.
It's because
I don't want whatever I'm doing
To end.
It's because
I don’t know what I should do next
To kill time
Until time kills me.
There is this constant stress
To fill up my days with stuff
And try to find meaning in the chaos.
There is this constant stress
To find that one thing
That will make me feel complete.
They say,
I should go out,
Buy a new pair of shoes,
Get a girl.
But I stay shut in my room.
I have
Gone to parties,
Worn dazzling outfits,
Flirted with girls.
But I still feel
Broken,
Incomplete,
A dead plant with a single green leaf,
Waiting to go brown like the others.
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