Eighteen.
Just a number, right?
But now I’m supposed to be ready?
Ready for what?
To fight, to break, to suffer?
Celebrate? For what?
Losing everything I thought was real?
Or should I brace for the inevitable crash?
Home? Feels like a cage.
The world? It’s a brutal place.
Love? A joke I fell for.
Friends? Gone, like they never mattered.
Warmth? A memory that’s fading, fast.
Fairytales were a sick joke.
Life isn’t about living.
It’s about not dying,
About drowning and pretending you can breathe.
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Author:
Meera Mere (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 20th, 2024 10:53
- Comment from author about the poem: I don’t want to go back and suffer again, But I’m too tired to move forward and suffer more. It’s like standing on the edge of a blade, Bleeding, but frozen in place. I’m sick of all of it— Sick of just surviving day after day. I want to live for once, To feel something real, something that doesn’t hurt. Happy Birthday to me, And sorry again for killing another night.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Meera Mere, adnan it is
Offline)
Comments2
Heyy I don't know what should I say but if I may...
Living will always be worth more that death atleast you would be able to witness the warmth you receive on your poems, love you get for it, the friends you have made here (me for one) and much much more. So here's to 18 years of living and much more to come 🥂... Truely amazing work and waiting for more..
Actually yeahh....
Thank you so much for reading and commenting~
At this point in my 75 year life I have come to realize the impotence of all the so-called landmark birthdays. 16,18,21,30, etc. only dates after all. Good work here.
Indeed, what matters is memories we make......
Thank you so much for reading and commenting~
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