Broken

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Night-time scribbles, but got short on English vocabulary.

My life is broken, if this is possible. It's in pieces.

Nothing makes sense and everything is out of place. 

I don’t recognize myself in the mirror and don’t understand the things I am doing. I’m doing them out of routine, mind-memory.

It’s like playing piano without even realising what I’m playing. Like riding home and the moment I’m home, I don’t even know how I’ve gotten there. But now I do realise. 

And the routine doesn’t make sense. To everyone else who knows me, it does. So I keep playing along. 

But I’m questioning. Everything. Even existence.

 

My life is broken. If it’s possible, it will be fixed.

Everything will make sense again and nothing will seem impossible.

I will recognize who I am and love the changed parts of me. The routine is different, but still mine. 

It’s like playing the piano and flowing over the notes, because I am in control. Like riding home and stopping half-way, to appreciate where I have come from. I want to realise it. 

And the routine makes sense again. To everyone else who knows me, it doesn’t. But they will in time.

And I keep questioning. Everything. Even existence.

 


Submitted: October 25, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Frashbrew. All rights reserved.

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