Just an average day.

Sometimes I wish it would all be over.

Being locked in my room,

Because I have no idea what else to do.

Alone in my room,

Journal Is dark thoughts of serial killers and the afterlife.

Within the safety of my big fuzzy blankets,

The color are freshly cut grass.

Tears fall like raindrops,  

Raindrops are amazing but hold value to few others.

They fall onto pages,

The color of freshly fallen snow.

I mourn a life that will never be,

With ink the color of the ocean.

I can gaze of the wonder of the Pacific Ocean from the pier,

But my toes will never feel it’s warm embrace.

I close the book,

the color of the Summer sun.

Sun which will dance across the hardwood,

of my prison floors.

The sun will never be mine to hold,

As I lie back in bed and turn off the light.

I’m reminded of the darkness,

Which dwells within me,

The cold North Eastern winds,

Chill me to my bones.

Seeing the all-encompassing shock reminds me,

Of the pain from which I can never escape.

Under the covers,

I silently wish it would all be over.

So I can escape from my all too flawed human form,

But this is just an average day.