Image: Picasso's The Old Guitarist


It isn't crying or sobbing.

There are no tissues with slice-of-life movies.

It isn't listening to sad music

While wishing for happier days.


It's lying in bed

Begging your body to sit up

Urging your legs to stand.

It's sitting with food in front of you

In your mouth

Not having the energy to chew

Let alone swallow.

It's the feeling of the world

Resting on your shoulders

Crushing you into the floor

Until you can't move

Let alone stand.

It's the feeling of rotting away

Until all that's left is a numbness

And what a wonderfully painful feeling

Because all of that pain

The self-pity

The self-loathing

Is gone




This poem is about: 
My family


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