Concussion

 

 

My outlet is gone, I feel as though I am a wounded animal that lashes out at the wrong people.

I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I cling, I cling like a leaf does in the fall waiting to change. Only to be ripped away and carried by the wind to a place I know not. 

Or maybe I am the tree clingy to the leaves because once I lose them I will have nothing left.

Lonely. 

No more leaves. No more trees.

Just a girl. Lost. Stumbling through the confusion that is life. Perpetually tired and sick of this mess I call home.

Over and over and over again this happens. Every fall the leaves are a sight to see.

But every time they leave the tree, on to bigger and better things.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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