Who? (Poem)


He doesn’t get out much,

Only when he alters his state.

He spends his days alone,

But he doesn’t mind.

In the past, he wanted to die.

Now he’s too tired.

There’s so much to say!

But no way to share,

And often no one to care.

Music and medication keep him alive,

Which isn’t a bad thing.

He’s always thirsty,

And only breathes through his nose.

And that’s fine with him.

After all, he’s just a nervous mess.

He’s not helpless.

Just a little off.

– E.L.

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