Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The sky seems woeful.            
Rain pours from the gloomy clouds.
Hail falls when rain fails.
Locked up behind bars like a criminal; cut off from society.
It seems as though this little birdy has forgotten how to fly; for this cruel world has clipped its wings and stripped away all joy — claimed as a pet, chained to a tree, trapped in a cage for everyone to see. Leading life in solitude has become the norm, but this little birdy can't help but long for something more.
Do you love me or not?
I must know if it is I that you want the most.
Does thinking of me set your heart ablaze?
When you look at me, what is it that you see?
Tell me honestly, please.
Am I yet another faze?
Once we part our separate ways,
will you remember the good old days?
Or shall they be forgot; for in your sweet thoughts,
I no longer remain?
If by chance we meet again,
would you bother to utter my name or even spare a moment of your time to look my way?
Would you walk right by when I try to say "Hi."
only to embrace the one you truly love; chose over me.
The mere thought of losing you brings tears to my eyes;
for the loss of you, my dear is my greatest fear.
He tells me that he is not happy with his life and I can’t help but wonder why. Why would he say such a thing to me of all people? I envy him for getting to be sad while I have to pull on a smile and play the game that he, she, them, they signed me up for. He left me in the arms of a ***** the night that I entered this unloving world, dare I ask, why? Was I not enough for him? I was a child, his child, what more could he possibly need? She sent me away to live with Papa, but why me? She kept brother. Was I not what she wanted? Daddy tells me that he didn’t mean to leave but I can’t bring my myself to believe. He says that he wants to die but I think that’s just a lie. What reason would he have to want to end his life if it wasn’t his that he ruined? It’s not like he drags the knife against his skin. He doesn’t fight the monsters from within to try and win. He doesn’t stay awake late at night thinking about the reasons why.
My passion is the evil sadness
Only this and a bitterness
Somewhat louder than the madness
Anxiety - anxiety - anxiety!
An echo murmured back the word, 'perplexity!'
The pedophobia penalty panicking
Quoth the appetite, 'Mind the complexity!'
I crave the wrong, worth wistfulness
Desolation - desolation - desolation!
The expectation laughed
Civilization, civilization!
Motivation, motivation!
That boring inspiration - that boring inspiration
My mind always strays to anticipations
In there stepped a barry 'aloneness'
The breathing smiled
I was a lifelessness and you a skittishness
Somewhat louder than the love child
It was profiled, wild, exiled!
And its eyes have all the regretting
What could be more purely addicting? The mourning never forgetting
And the breather never constricting.
I'm sorry that my poetry is horrible...
I build my walls up high so that I can hide behind them and hopefully you can never reach inside again. These walls of mine are thick and strong unlike my skin, which is weak and thin. Skin that is so easily torn apart. Covered from top to bottom with marks of many. A collection of cuts, bruises, burns, and scars. As I start to drag the welcoming and comforting blade; burning flame across my already tainted body I will realize that I'm not a canvas made for this type of art, nor am I cat with nine lives. Each mark brings me one breath; step closer to my very last. Those lovely forms of art, do you see them? Yeah, the ones that are dressing my body with pink lines. Every single one of them was a different failed attempt to cry for help.  One line alone is equal to that of a thousand battles that they win and I lose. Nobody cares about how much pain that I am in, and that's fine because I don't care either. I will eventually meet my end and leave this cruel world in vain.
I am so bad at writing.
How can this possibly be considered living?
If all I ever really do is hide in constant fear.
When the only thing I hear are these voices inside my head.
I'm much like a puppet confined by strings, but is my life really defined by these things. It's like I'm stuck in this world, in which I simply do not belong. A world oh so bleak and monochromatic and full of hatred. This is a place where the scenery is dramatic and the people are melting plastic. A play crumbling apart behind the scenes, a family tumbling down under intense pressure, or a shattered heart stumbling upon the scattered shards.
Next page