I've scrapped the first
fifteen versions of a poem
I don't want to write or
maybe I want to write it but I'm
afraid I won't like it or
am I just afraid of what I might
say,
of what my subconscious will
convey?

Ink drying up like dried blood
while the blood in my veins
pulsates and my
head throbs as I try to decipher
how much of what has happened
to me is actually because
of me.

Is it me?
Are my experiences mine because
I made them so,
or did I happen to just
stumble into the darkness?

A sour mashup of
self-love and self-loathing,
it's like I have two minds intertwined
double-analyzing double helix
radioactive brain DNA

Am I great? Am I awful?
Am I even worthy of such extremes?
Where are all the adjectives to
describe me?
Can I write about it if
it changes daily?
Is it possible to know yourself perfectly and
also not at all?

Questions generating more
questions,
hypothesizing Eye
must seek before
I find.

I'm so tired of your sad eyes
trailing down my body;
a look of disapproval gleaming in your irises
more poisonous than any venom--
one little look and I'm dead

I'm so sick of your thoughtless words
You act as if I have no feelings--
Simply a mindless machine given as a toy
I am not a robot
I have run out of batteries

I'm so fed up with your heavy hands
They squeeze my sides
but feel like they are gripping my throat
You don't know how much weight your actions hold
or how I'm suffocating in silence

I'm so over your polite smile
that has everyone fooled but me
Stop hiding behind a mask of innocence
Show everyone what happens behind closed doors
Let them cast stones until you bleed the truth