Dec 2017
I am a failure
I am the look your mother gives when rent can't be paid
I am the soul of an addict who has been clean, only to relapse
Tears flow up to my eyes and I can't help but wonder
Why am I always picked last?
I am the eraser of a pencil
So close to an object so good at creating
Be it dreams or mistakes
And I am the end piece
I cut away at mistake
I banish things people don't want to feel about themselves.
There I am
With a flyswatter and bug spray
Chasing away their depression like the little creature it is
Flies swarm around the dead bodies of my dreams
They feed on the tiny little pieces of hope I could ever recreate.
I am climbing up a hill of bodies
Each one in more pain than the last.
They grasp onto my clothing and look deep into my eyes.
My core shakes.
Yet I still clutch to the bodies my pencil, my sword, still in hand.
What is in the black orbs where their windows to souls should be?
I kick away their hands but can't block out the words being tossed to me.
So I open both hands to receive
Falling helplessly into a void
I see fields of failures
All human forms
Out of the darkness I am clutched by the hands of a tar demon
Carelessly I am thrown aside
Among the bodies of those still groaning out the bitter word
Failure.
In under a minute I am drowing
Head forced so violently underwater
I try and reach for the hands of other failures but
Even they cast a dark eye to me.
I reach now
For tiny streams of light in the dark deep ocean
Holding onto my last breath like a mother holds a child.
Right before my eyes roll back and my heart stops
I fall through the earth
Falling to the grassy dirt on my face
At once it is sprung upon me
The masses chanting the one word I feel burned onto the muscle of my heart
"Failure!"
They cry
Pointing a long accusing finger at me.
I am once again just a washed up freak of nature
I break my pencil in two and run into darkness.
Trying to mend the broken parts of myself with flimsy bandaids
Trying to stitch closed my deep emotional wounds with cheap thread.
In that darkness I see a shadowy figure
Something completely composed of depression.
I am handed a plastic mask
Beautiful, plain and generic
A perfect smile and happy eyes drawn on
And though I wear it to deceive the eyes of many
My chest still burns with the word
Failure.
I am the look your mother gives when rent can't be paid
I am the soul of an addict who has been clean, only to relapse
Tears flow up to my eyes and I can't help but wonder
Why am I always picked last?
I am the eraser of a pencil
So close to an object so good at creating
Be it dreams or mistakes
And I am the end piece
I cut away at mistake
I banish things people don't want to feel about themselves.
There I am
With a flyswatter and bug spray
Chasing away their depression like the little creature it is
Flies swarm around the dead bodies of my dreams
They feed on the tiny little pieces of hope I could ever recreate.
I am climbing up a hill of bodies
Each one in more pain than the last.
They grasp onto my clothing and look deep into my eyes.
My core shakes.
Yet I still clutch to the bodies my pencil, my sword, still in hand.
What is in the black orbs where their windows to souls should be?
I kick away their hands but can't block out the words being tossed to me.
So I open both hands to receive
Falling helplessly into a void
I see fields of failures
All human forms
Out of the darkness I am clutched by the hands of a tar demon
Carelessly I am thrown aside
Among the bodies of those still groaning out the bitter word
Failure.
In under a minute I am drowing
Head forced so violently underwater
I try and reach for the hands of other failures but
Even they cast a dark eye to me.
I reach now
For tiny streams of light in the dark deep ocean
Holding onto my last breath like a mother holds a child.
Right before my eyes roll back and my heart stops
I fall through the earth
Falling to the grassy dirt on my face
At once it is sprung upon me
The masses chanting the one word I feel burned onto the muscle of my heart
"Failure!"
They cry
Pointing a long accusing finger at me.
I am once again just a washed up freak of nature
I break my pencil in two and run into darkness.
Trying to mend the broken parts of myself with flimsy bandaids
Trying to stitch closed my deep emotional wounds with cheap thread.
In that darkness I see a shadowy figure
Something completely composed of depression.
I am handed a plastic mask
Beautiful, plain and generic
A perfect smile and happy eyes drawn on
And though I wear it to deceive the eyes of many
My chest still burns with the word
Failure.
