My heart is a very deep, unfinished well and at the end, if it ends, is a vividly rusted, old penny I threw in when I was about 7 or so. That was the first time I felt so profoundly weak; I was livid at someone or tired of life or maybe just a little lonesome. I was so desperate for some ounce of consistency that I entrusted my faith to something worth as much as I felt.

Maybe I should’ve dove in after it but I know I would drown in a smog of thick emotions I threw away for a bad day, or maybe just to ruin a good day. I would break my neck on the floor or things too hard to say.

I’ve never conquered the thick horde of molasses-filled pain rotting at the end, if it ends.

My heart is either a half empty grave or a flamboyant crater that somehow feels unfinished. Now-a-days I am simply a torn pocket seam for which tiny things barrel through, manifest into thoughts, and snore when they hibernate.

I am here today.

This poem is about: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741