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It is not getting better. I cannot make it get better. I just wish it would at least get better. This he wrote. Not as a note. He wrote this on a piece of paper. He called it a poem. He titled it blue. He did not like the colour blue too much. He thought if sadness had a colour it would be blue. He felt this were true. Why he had not a clue.

It is not going away. I cannot make it go away. I just wish it would go away. This he wrote. Not as a note. He wrote this on his phone. He called it a poem. He titled it red. Because that was the colour in his head. He would have titled it pain but chose the colour instead. He felt it more appropriate as he wrote while his wrists bled.

Their love. Insufficient. I need more. I just wish they would love me more. This he wrote. Not as a note. He wrote this on the back of a magazine cover. He called it a poem. He titled it hate. He would have used a colour but none seemed appropriate. Words in his head told him his was an ill fate. He tried to block them but they continued to resonate.

One day. Maybe not soon. But one day I’ll go away. One day I will die. This he never wrote. Just thoughts in his head that would float. He kept them in his head because he was scared. He never gave it  a name. He thought if they ever saw it they may subject him to the flame. He might be diagnosed with mental instability and be called insane.

Autres oeuvres par Sinethemba Nyawose...



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