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Tomorrow and yesterday.
All there is.
It is today.
Folded, burned, and broken
Lying on the floor by my toy airplane.
There it is,
It just sits there,
Flying in its mind,
Wishing it had a mind.
So it could fly in its mind
Now till tomorrow
When it dies
If it could, never living,
Cause it's paper on the floor.
But if there's nothing else except tomorrow,
Tomorrow for life to suck
And the day after that and after that
And keep going.
Suicide?
But no,
That would suck too,
Like everything else.
A stupid paper,
A stupid rhyme,
All there is.
I wrote this poem in the 8th grade. The idea of this poem is being so bored with everything that it borders on depression.
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