Sat, 09/26/2015 - 21:31 -- Drea720

In the end, they're all blurs.

Passing through the streets, some stopping to say words at me

Fewer seeking the words that I can give to them.


Each next one more insecure than the one preceeding.

It's apparent we are all needing of it.

With each step, I try to find what I left behind from the previous stride.

The only thing that I can feel is that everyone else has found their I-T.

Not me.

But who am I to convince you that I'm real too?

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


Need to talk?

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