Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Gray Dawson Oct 2023
Where there once was children catching frogs
in their hands, playing in the rivers dividing the sites,
or trying to convince the camp staff to give
them the branches they are attempting to clear,

There is now only her.

In the bright sun, doused in it’s heat,
her body shrivels in her wheelchair.
I step forward. She doesn’t move.
Her head falls forward. I scoop it up.
Hair lifting from the scalp, slipping away
between the webbing of my fingers.
I place a pillow behind her head and lay it back.

She snuggles into the blankets.

Pills fall into my palm; Red capsules, tiny whites,
chalky blues, and pinks with dust. Carving craters
into my lifelines. I place them on her bedside table.
She asks me to sort them. I throw them at the wall.
Two dozen stick, her mouth falls open, I scrape
them off and pour them in. Her teeth chew
and her tongue savors, I offer water. She sips,
it piles into the stomach. Bulging. I drain it
with a needle. It spills from the sky. The wind catches.

Tornado sirens blare across the grounds.

A scream cuts through my vocal cords.
I stand on the other side of the bridge.
Mud cakes the wheels of her chair. Her voice carries
before falling halfway across the slick surface.
A crack strikes the sky. The frogs beg me to go
inside. The wind cuts the skin. My vocal cords
rip and struggle against the storm. They fly
into the eye. The tips of my fingers catch before
they disappear. She smiles, her eyes slide closed.

A strike crumbles the bridge.
Gray Dawson Oct 2023
Cries ring out around the room.
Beg me once more. I will not stoop.
The shelter is crumbling. Walls turning pink.
Windows fogging up, the gas has leaked.
Trembling hands reach, no satisfaction is given.
The argyle rug we live on is frayed. Rat bones
pile in the corners.

Starvation came and went.

Matted hair is stretched with the fingers.
Plucking and prodding. Dirtied face,
green as the curtains. Pressing deeper
into the walls. The next course is served.

A dead dream, warts, rotted meat.

The others fight for the meat. I rip a
piece of the dream. Bring a finger
to the lips and shush. The dream stops
screaming. Blue skies and honeyed words
capture. Fading into the carpet, resting
my head on the bones. A scratch strikes
the entrance. Silence. Screech. Hiss.
Silence. We open the door, then close it.

It is not an exit after all.

The girl to my left, blinks at me.
I tell her no, not yet. I will wait
for the exit. She blinks once more.
We just have to wait for it. Glazed
eyes meet mine. She crumbles.

The next course has been served.
Gray Dawson Nov 2020
Pigment caked under my nails.
Tasting the metallic remnants of a lost childhood.
The reality is hidden in visions and supposed dreams.
Fed to me, was the comforting hugs of mother and soothing lies.
Grew up in the age of paid horror.

A new appendage is cheaper than keeping the original.
Marked by the price of my body.
Each fall, subtracting, each workout, adding.
Beauty is a curse nowadays.
Each beautiful child is raised and sold for millions.
Each ugly child prays to be one of the lucky to receive the new parts.

Greedy families hope for attractive offspring,
to disassemble for a new future.
A pair of brilliant green eyes can change your luck.
Having blue eyes guarantees you to be blind.
Leaving you with shades to cover the hollow left behind.

Adults will tell you sports lead to a promising future.
But they don’t tell you that it’ll lead you to losing your body.
Self-harm is a death sentence. A cut drops your value.
It forces you into the career of taking.       Taking the beauty from the beautiful.
Cutting a limb or two won’t hurt them. Taking an eye is just life.
Tell yourself they should know better. They should’ve expected it.
Expect the unexpected when you are beautiful. Expect a life of pain.
Expect misery and lose those emotions when you are ugly. You won’t need that conscience.

Forget about the forgotten already. Use that arm to grab a new leg.
Use your head to get a better one.
Use your emptiness to end others. They won’t need that life.
And don’t forget, to use your misery.
The more miserable you are, the better off the world is when you end it.
What do you think of this poem?
Gray Dawson Mar 2020
It starts with curiosity
It starts with impulse

One cut here
One cut there

It wont get out of hand
I swear

Impulse continues
This awful addiction

You know it's wrong
So you cover it up

Long sleeves

Kiss swimming goodbye
You can't swim in long sleeves

The habit never ends
You know it's true

The pull is always there
Waiting for you
Gray Dawson Mar 2020
Childish wrists
Soft and white
Aside from a few lines

Scarred and rough
Raised along different points of the wrist
Hundreds of lines on this one
Old lines

Bruises from a tight grip
Soft little lines
Not noticeable to anyone
but the wrist

Teary wrists
Cried into often
Soft and pale

On everyone
Yet no one notices
The little signs
Gray Dawson Mar 2020
The stars shine bright

as the moon emits light

It's all prettier than I write

I write about depression

My obsessions

and my daily confessions

It's easier to write

than to fight

most of the time

I write by candlelight

or so I wish

I instead write by a LED light

The one I bought on wish

but that's not the important bit

The sun & the moon

will always upstage

this fool

after all,

they're too

**** beautiful
Gray Dawson Mar 2020
The rage bubbles

Like lave trapped in a cage

The pain troubles

my poor little page.

I write about madness 

my poor little brain 

it feels me going mad

As I write my last refrain

The happiness seeping in 

as the voices try to win 

They aren't doing a very good job 

cause they soon turn into a blob

The happiness lets me know I won 

the war of surviving a day more

I let the sadness go

As I reach for the light

to let the good dreams come

after another day won
Next page