There are many reasons why I worry To many to list actually My heart pumps fear to every part of my body This ensures that my brain doesn’t have an escape route I drown in my own fear with waves of constant anxiety depresssion circulated throughout my naïve self The cold wait for death lurks in the back of me My feet fear exhaustion My hands fear distortion My heart fears adoption So again like i’ve told you many times before There is no real reason not to worry
Underneath your bed there was a monster He stalked you until he was vanquished Underneath your pillow there was a silver coin small enough to fit comfortably in your hand
Underneath your locker there was an unknown space a space where you kept love notes and gossip Underneath your cap was a head of freshly cut hair the professional kind you wear to important things
Underneath your uniform there was a soft soul the kind that never wanted to **** but had to Underneath her smile there was an expectant mother To scared about you to tell you the truth
Underneath your ring was a will to fight But a will to die was a whole other story Underneath the wound there was no hope But there was a recalling of all you had done
You thought I was weak Ha You thought I couldn’t handle it Ha You thought if you were sweet you would get somewhere Ha You thought that you had me all figured out Ha You thought I was invisible Ha You thought that I could never get anywhere in life Ha You underestimate me
This is not a poem about metaphors or similes This is not poem about sad lives and failed relationships This is not a poem about happy times and family This is not a poem about analogies that has a million reasons This is not a poem about love or hate This is not a poem about your insecurities or mine This is not a poem about faults or regrets This is not a poem about symbolism and ryhme This is not a poem about strength and confidence This is not a poem about loving yourself or having peace This is not a poem about war or death This is not a poem about colors or textures This is not a poem about the little details in life This is not even a poem This is writers block
I was once had pure skin the kind that all loved the feeling of It was soft and gentle like water that runs over smooth pebbles Time passed and wrinkles twisted and spiraled around my skin turning me old They enveloped my face turning me ugly The wrinkles brought bruises on even the slightest bumps My bones lost marrow and teeth lost happiness The wrinkles brought sickness to my lungs I struggled to breathe and my lungs struggled to fight Then I lost the fight with time as we all will do and I happily pranced into the light with my new soft skin