Dear Journal I've become the perfect con-artist.
I've lied through my teeth to her.
No one knows how many times I've wanted to tell her.
To tell her,
I still drink,
do drugs,
and be intamate people who don't love me.
I've wanted to tell her I'm depressed,
screwed from the inside out.
I want to ask for help...
But no,
she does not need this now.
She has problems of her own,
sweet journal.
I can't tell my mother that everytime she tells me her problems,
I take and carry them with me.
I am her piller,
I cannot bend.
I cannot tell her how it hurts inside,
it hurts to carry her on my shoulders.
And still I am confused,
mind messed and confused.
Who will help me,
carry me on their shoulders?
I fear the burden would be too much to bare. |
