A second one
You'll never see
Hopefully
Oh, hopefully.
I don't think you hate me
I hope that I'm right
I don't think I could handle
If I'm wrong.
Though it might come as a shock
I don't want you to feel bad
I don't want you to feel sad
The last letter
Was a falsity
Uncirculated
And ultimately
Untrue.
I don't know the truth
I don't know how I feel
I don't know what I feel
I don't know if
I feel
Or
If it's real.
If I could rid you of your guilt
Of your shame
Of my faults
Pressed onto you
By a selfish
Unworthy
Unfathomable individual
I would.
I'm so sorry
Truly
Truly sorry
For how I feel
And how
Even now
I manage to act a victim
As if a scornful act
Was committed against me
And that this letter
You'll never see
Is my final plea.
I know
I know
You don't see me
Or anyone
In that light
And I want you to know
It's alright.
I never wanted this to happen
I never wanted anything
To get to the point
Where I can't help solve
The problems I caused.
I won't worry you anymore.
I won't make you feel guilty.
I can't.
I'll do
Whatever
And all
That it takes
To keep it closed;
Seal the wound of my tears
And cauterize it
So no one has to look
At such an unsightly thing
Ever again.
I don't care if it's unhealthy
I don't care if these are steps backwards
As long as I can stay with you
And be the way we used to
That's all I need.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 2:06 PM UTC
This is a mistake
A poem
A letter
I shouldn't write.
You’ll never see it
But I always will.
The feelings dissolve on my tongue
Like a bitter pill.
I am not in love with you
Not in the sense
That my heart shattered into shards
When you paid your pence.
I was aware
Of the fate to await
Yet I spoke my heart
To receive an empty plate.
The feeling was delayed
For a time a smidge too long, but
Then the dams broke,
And out came a flood.
If this were on paper
I’d slit my wrist
And drip the blood
If not for dramatics;
If only to make you
Or someone
Hurt the way i do.
Maybe I do love you
And maybe i should not
I know you just don't love anyone
But i'm sorrowful i could not
Make it
Into your heart
The same way
You made it into mine.
If you ever read this poem
I hope it makes you sad.
I would be glad
If you felt sad
Truly bad
For me.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 2:05 PM UTC
I want to write a poem
That will be able to touch someone's heart
That will make them feel
The things i felt
When I wrote it.
They say
If there's a will
There is a way
But i don't possess that will
And i havent
And I don't know if I ever will.
Will is a foreign concept
Will as in want
As in need
As in passion
As in power.
I seem to lack it
More
And more
And more
And more often.
Its likely normal
To feel this way
And have times when there isn't a will
So there isn't a way
But i don't care
I hate it
I despise it
Nothing matters as it should
And every waking moment is a chore.
If i could restore my will
I would
But i can't
Because i have no will
To find that way,
And it would simply be easier
To pass away.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 2:05 PM UTC
I want something awful to happen to me.
I do!
I do I do I do!
I don't.
I don't.
Do I?
What do I want?
Why do I want?
Why does the desire for anything other than eating sleeping and reproducing plague my mind?
I want to understand pain
I want to understand suffering.
I want to understand humanity
And what it means to be human.
Am I human?
Are the moral values I possess enough to keep me afloat in the sea of thought?
No.
They aren't.
To be flushed out is my fate,
To be forgotten with time.
I want to be remembered.
I am afraid.
So
Very afraid
Of being alone.
Will this matter when I die?
Will this become a piece of literature for future generations to dissect?
Surely not.
Ah,
How lovely that would be.
Is this a poem?
What is a poem?
This is simply words
On a page.
Is it writing?
What is writing, anyways?
Does this matter?
Will I get an answer?
Won't you answer me?
One day I hope to hear it.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 2:03 PM UTC
The white snow falls
Onto the dull blue heron,
Turning it white.
Making it better.
The previous heron was filthy
Unworthy to be gazed upon
By anyone’s eyes.
The snow which fell upon
The dull blue heron,
Dirtied from the mud
Was truly a miracle.
To think that nature
Would even touch that disgusting
Atrocious being-
No, not being.
It is simply less than that.
Not a heron at all,
Let alone a bird.
Barely able to be called a creature,
And yet nature still purified it.
What a lovely story.
The dull blue heron walks
Covered in snow,
The waves of which
Never stop.
Snow falls, and falls, and falls,
And falls.
The mind of the heron
Is clouded.
Birds bite into the dull blue heron
Like bitter chocolate.
The heron cries.
Dull blue tears,
Fitting of a dull blue heron.
The heron is no longer blue.
The heron is now worthy
Of being called a creature.
The heron is white
And has been drowned,
As nature
And everyone
Wanted.
If it hadn’t happened,
It would have been better
For the dull blue heron
To not exist at all.
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:18 PM UTC