Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
there is a house among the shallow plains,
where wheat and field waltz hand in bitter hand,
And in the closed off floor beneath the frames,
there lies a fire dancing in the sand.
It's name is not important to the plot,
but it's been hiding there for quite some time.
it lives and cries beneath the fabled lot,
it sits and tries to find another rhyme,
But there are none here, there are none inside;
if there was a glimmer of consciousness,
it was massacred by life's closet teiid,
and destroyed by their own self consciousness.
So in the house among the shallow plains,
the ******* son of dumb and dumb remains.
Dare enter to thy miserable life!
See the nothing inside my dying brain.
I was a poet once before the strife,
it was hell to watch it destroy my train.

Now every word sounds like it is a joke,
there is no plot inside this teeming home.
I do not want to watch you fall and choke,
but it is hard when you read me your tome.

I hope you enjoy bullying your son,
because this is the last you'll see of him.
I made him go quite crazy so he'll run.
I control all the words that come from them.

So until he becomes one who can't sleep,
I will make him see me and want to weep.
I think I need a glass of water-
but I guess that would ruin the point,
to rid this world of myself,
sans I is a world to rejoice.

But something bitter came my way,
it stopped me in my tracks,
downing downers, feeling
the cuts along my back.

I thought first, of the windmills,
of an April in Paris,
this is a feeling that
I digest with the pills.

I thought second of fient,
in their imprication I had
become, nay, grown so
used to the thought.

Except late at night,
I would pay to make it stop.

The third thought was the killer,
poised with a knife above my head,
stabbing viciously, cleaving the flesh
from my withered wrinkled bones.

We could've had a ****** good time.
Isn't it pretty to think so?
Late at night I ponder it.
Hemingway, of all the things.
The feeble proliferation-
that drips into my mind,
it tells me I am nothing.

And all the quickest walks-
the shortest feelings,
they become the most pronounced.

By and by, the wordless chorus
will ring their alarms, tout their
bitter and destroyed souls.

I have survived this long,
but my brain tells me,
and it does tell me,
I am wrong to be feeling glad.

Like it knows my happiness is a symptom-
a screaming cry of something sweet in the
temporary maze inside my skull, where
behind each locked door is yet another.

So every switch I turn, every lock I pick, they all
become part of my depression eventually.
Worn to the brim is the old gold necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are too feckless,
fickle as they crack as to slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another hateful time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the steady, distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been so regally taught,
it is inside the mind that often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.
I am quite simply unbearable,
everything I do, it's terrible,
and when the night strikes twelve on clocks,
I will sit and lie awake, think a lot.

The old lake by where I grew up,
the palm trees of a place I love,
it all flashes past me in a stare,
like even the good memories exist
simply and utterly to pull my hair.

I am so sick of myself.
I scream-    I am so sick of myself.
I lash out, I am so sick of myself!
It doesn't pay to be sick of yourself.

It's a sad, lonely life that I envision,
convince myself I'm fine, until the
bombs strike or the Earth decays,
and it is wrapped around my finger
like a note to my dead thoughts.

I am so sick of myself,
utterly annoyed at how little
I pay attention, how little I
regard others' feelings.

And it is at the end of the trail I see
old men, lonely, same as me.
The bastain of their minds covered in thick dark fog.
Inside of it I presume, just more of the same bitterness.

Then there are the post feelings,
and you know you drive everyone
away from you. You know they are
afraid of you. You know every sound,
every breath that escapes your lungs
is the same as a clock ticking until
it breaks. You know how it ends and
you have ambitions that aren't great.

Maybe I'll go to college,
                                             and be pitied there.

Maybe I'll finally learn the violin,
                                                       and disappoint my grandfather.

Maybe I'll find someone to love,
                                                      and watch them misunderstand me.

Maybe I'll enjoy the world,
                                                     until I lay awake at night.
Worrying,                                              If I could sit in a vacant sky,
I'll fall.                                              I'd watch the hopeless world go by,
                                                                   and if I could apologize,
Don't catch me,                                             I would. I would.
please just let me
drown inside the sea,                        But when you've ruined yourself
let the water lap.                                  far too many times to count,
                                                                   is there really a reason?
                                                                       Why bother?
Next page