Last year, I did a writing prompt where you flip to random pages of a book I was reading. This book was The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. I wasn’t really a fan of the book, but it made me think about… life.
The words I ended with for the prompt were:
With no further ado, the poem I wrote-
I’m in a room.
I’m in a lousy mood,
My voice is shaky.
I have nothing left,
Except for what I’ve been carrying on my back.
I keep apologizing to myself, to my demons.
I’d never knew I’d be a killer.
A killer of hopes, dreams, love.
Never thought I’d be capable of being one who kills.
I’m going to hell.
I should’ve never left her.
I honestly forgot I wrote this. It must have been during a darker time of last year. Probably spring, I don’t much like spring.
Going back, reading this poem, feels odd. I can still feel the feeling I put in to the words. I can still feel the teacher questioning my sanity.
But then again, who actually is normal?