Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
devan-proctorPoems
I. I am a ragdoll with loose stitching. I am a cat with no whiskers. I am adrift without course, and my tongue is lost at sea. It vows to **** **** ***** Say exactly what you mean. Say you liked me more in retrograde. Say I'm unbalanced. Say that last laugh carried a bit too far. Say I'm finished. Say I've been had. Say the voyage has ended. Say it. ***** Say it. **** it. And I'll scream over and over, and over again, until every last drop of the sea knows the answer- "What did I do, what did I do?" II. This mask- I do not want it. I need everyone to know I do not want it. But, oh- how it craves me. This face is haunting, stealing light, fire, and the ability to stand, and the means to say I will, I will not. What we all desperately desire- is it what keeps us at arms length, away from the center? The whole? The home? How does a heart admit itself to strangers? When is a heart permitted to stop? III. Does the pain I carry make me a monster? Can one grow from a curse? Many times I've scanned my past for deserving signs and scars. A curse traps victims under it wheels, and revs silently. And there is so much of it. It manifests stupidly, yet wholly and confounding. It sticks. When you say it's no one's fault, it must be my fault. Is it a blight others fear catching? I don't want to share this with anyone, but how else will the world know it's (not) my fault? I want to pull it all out of me, those dark, old splinters. I do not know how. IV. There is a world outside of it, glowing with morning dew and a softer sun. And all is gentle, waiting, listening.
0
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Three Phases, and One Light
I. I am a ragdoll with loose stitching. I am a cat with no whiskers. I am adrift without course, and my tongue is lost at sea. It vows to **** **** ***** Say exactly what you mean. Say you liked me more in retrograde. Say I'm unbalanced. Say that last laugh carried a bit too far. Say I'm finished. Say I've been had. Say the voyage has ended. Say it. ***** Say it. **** it. And I'll scream over and over, and over again, until every last drop of the sea knows the answer- "What did I do, what did I do?" II. This mask- I do not want it. I need everyone to know I do not want it. But, oh- how it craves me. This face is haunting, stealing light, fire, and the ability to stand, and the means to say I will, I will not. What we all desperately desire- is it what keeps us at arms length, away from the center? The whole? The home? How does a heart admit itself to strangers? When is a heart permitted to stop? III. Does the pain I carry make me a monster? Can one grow from a curse? Many times I've scanned my past for deserving signs and scars. A curse traps victims under it wheels, and revs silently. And there is so much of it. It manifests stupidly, yet wholly and confounding. It sticks. When you say it's no one's fault, it must be my fault. Is it a blight others fear catching? I don't want to share this with anyone, but how else will the world know it's (not) my fault? I want to pull it all out of me, those dark, old splinters. I do not know how. IV. There is a world outside of it, glowing with morning dew and a softer sun. And all is gentle, waiting, listening.
Written by
devan-proctor
American
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem