How can you accept the fact
that you’re just a ****** person?
How can you walk around
like the world’s in your hands,
but have nothing to show for it?
How do you manage to make
everything about yourself,
knowing good and well you wouldn’t have
even gotten this far if you hadn’t had help?
How can you just take the credit
and run faster than the wind?
How is it even possible for you
to get away with it again and again?
I wish I understood why you think
you can play the victim.
when the cops showed up
you had the knife n your hands
still dripping the deep red serum.
How can you just lie
without an ounce of remorse?
Have you no shame at all?
No, you couldn’t possibly comprehend
exactly what it is to feel this hurt.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
The house that I live in was built from scratch
with the door painted red,
and the memories to match.
The bricks and mortar line the porch like veins;
Each connected to the other like rain drops on my window pane.
Doorknobs of crystal, sit shattered, upon my red door,
so, sadly, no one cares to come inside anymore.
The inside is dreary,
with deep shades of gray,
and writing on the wall that's starting to fade.
Words, once printed so clearly,
that explain just how it all ended up this way.
It's sad really, when you think about it enough;
before the crystal doorknobs on the front door were broken
these rooms were filled with people
who were all just so preoccupied to look up.
The stair case, it leans, like the intoxicated version of myself.
Unable to hold the weight of anything more than itself.
I haven't been up there in years,
in fear that if I try
the climb might collapse
and I don't think I'd be able to escape with my life.
The rooms on the bottom floor are all molded to to ceiling
from years of water damage and no proper upkeeping.
There's nothing in them anymore since my roommates vacated,
so the rooms sit abandoned, black, and vacant.
The hallway is lined with old frames;
pictures of memories, faded, from better days.
They're falling apart, wood splitting and broken.
Who are these people in these photos, and do they remember me anymore?
In the kitchen, the sink, sits piled with dishes.
Even if I chose to wash them, there's no water to do it.
From inside, there's only one happy place.
I sit behind the front door and watch as the dawn breaks.
The sunshine bleeds through and the colors come dancing.
At dawn, every morning, from inside my house
there's a split second of happiness when the sun comes around.
It's all I look forward to, surrounded by this mess.
When the sun goes away, I turn my back to the door
and I realize, I'll be stuck inside these four walls forever more.
It's a surprise to say this house is still standing.
It should have given way years ago like the others around it.
I can't rebuild, cause what would that make me?
How could I ever bear to tear apart the house that is me?
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
There’s this constant internal battle
between my heart and my brain.
The heart, on one hand, runs on emotion
and in the other, is the logic that keeps me-barely- sane.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:00 AM UTC