We do not know what is happening at the moment farther away in the universe: the light that we see from distant galaxies left them millions of years ago. When we look at the universe, we are seeing it as it was in the past. We look up at the stars, the beauty of lights as they go out. The sun is collapsing in on itself and emitting the only hope we have of survival; we bask in the death of something we would die without.
We have one chance to live, yet feed off death. We all share the same sun, the same sky. We are all faced with a sense of irrelevance.
*How can we be a part of something bigger when we are smaller than ever?
This isn't really a poem, it's the abscent minded musings of a less than average teenager who has spent the whole evening reading A Brief History of Time. Soz.
You left a crooked smile and a bitter taste in my mouth
You left shrugs, glares, unanswered questions
You left scraps of your spidery handwriting and an ache in my chest
You left me with people that are hollow, who look at me with disappointment - they want what I cannot give
You left a whisper, a murmur
I awake at 2:32 and I am
Breath evaporates, vision clouds -
I drift, it is peaceful in the deep
I no longer feel like a burden; lumbering and pathetic
My hands are soft,
my thighs milky and unclenched
my lips barely touched
Insomnia envelops me once more and I awake:
this body is not ready
I'm a shy and anxious soul
often clumsy with my words
I make pitiful mistakes
I lack work ethic and confidence
I'm easily steered, easy to break
My clothes don't hang beautifully on me,
I have no clarity or grace
I'm embarrassing, ridiculous and often dull
I shatter daily, fall in love with the idea of freedom
yet crave solitude
I cry easily
I'm not breathtaking or magnificent,
I don't stand out
I rarely elicit charm or charisma
I could trace each of our fleeting conversations back and
correct every word that I've uttered,
but I would annihilate myself before I hurt you even a little bit.
I'm not proud of this in any shape or form; it has no structure at all but I was exhausted and headachy and bleurgh
no sadness is beautiful nor poetic;
free me from the awe of suicide.
our skin is translucent, as one we flutter and fade
- our time here is temporary
It's so easy to hang your head in shame,
To apologise without sincerity.
It's so easy to wither and crumple,
To let self loathing eat away at you like blight.
It's so easy to allow yourself to become nothing; something temporary.
Simplicity is a requirement,
we avoid all which attracts anarchy within us.
We do not anticipate accidents, we do not anticipate
those who clamber into our lives and shine
with individuality and complexion -
we fear those who possess difference.
It reminds us of what we lack,
or of what we are too afraid to expose to others.
And I fell in love with a rose, when I am merely a dandelion.
I write poems only to destroy them immediately;
endless words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.
I wither, I crumple.
I chose simplicity.
Eyes tightly shut, I count to a safe number and turn the switch
On is where my demons lie,
where the obsessive
counting , swallowing and numbers
clutch at me.
Where I see darkness even when my eyes are
where being awake is no consolation.
All my scars are exposed, my anxiety evaluated and
my fear is exposed.
I'm no longer me.
The material is ironed out, I fluctuate and bend.
I am false.
I make sounds which are not my own,
I forget to clutch at you.
You're amongst my demons,
you are my demons.
And there lie my choices,
if choice even exists