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an_angry_poetPoems
Sixteen, drenched feet tread away from school to a small pond I call home. The rain beats against my back, shoves my head into the water. Water’s weight drips from my hair and shatters my reflection. Now I am ugly. Now I am a thousand plastic pieces polluting this sickened sea and its seasick schools of fish. Deprecation drowning their gills and choking out compliments. Six pack rings ring open their stomachs. Swallowed plastic bags that drift along the surface. The surface of the water, the surface of my face fake in this plastic shadow suffocating my gaze. Vision fading, my goals disintegrating, dissociating into a saltwater solution: one part school, part parents, part disappointment drizzles down my esophagus and evaporates into tear gas, tearing my throat open. Once a bottle so voiceless, now a riptide of voices pulling my tears back to the edge of my eyelids. The edge of a pond shut tight under ice sheets, skating rinks for their words worn down by the raindrops. The rain, the tears falling from the clouds in my mind follow the child melting his way back home, opening the door to my soul.
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Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:21 AM UTC
Imposter Syndrome
Sixteen, drenched feet tread away from school to a small pond I call home. The rain beats against my back, shoves my head into the water. Water’s weight drips from my hair and shatters my reflection. Now I am ugly. Now I am a thousand plastic pieces polluting this sickened sea and its seasick schools of fish. Deprecation drowning their gills and choking out compliments. Six pack rings ring open their stomachs. Swallowed plastic bags that drift along the surface. The surface of the water, the surface of my face fake in this plastic shadow suffocating my gaze. Vision fading, my goals disintegrating, dissociating into a saltwater solution: one part school, part parents, part disappointment drizzles down my esophagus and evaporates into tear gas, tearing my throat open. Once a bottle so voiceless, now a riptide of voices pulling my tears back to the edge of my eyelids. The edge of a pond shut tight under ice sheets, skating rinks for their words worn down by the raindrops. The rain, the tears falling from the clouds in my mind follow the child melting his way back home, opening the door to my soul.
an_angry_poet
Written by
an_angry_poet
16/M
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:21 AM UTC
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