Death by
a thousand papercuts,
the careless finality of words
where gestures would be far more appreciated,
even if futile.
Do you have any idea what it feels like
to be thrown away so easily,
without mattering?
You’re a throwaway line,
thought of in the moment
and then discarded,
not even to dreams,
and never found,
and lost and

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.