You pick on me,
Like strings.
Leaving none attached for me to pull myself together,
After the wreck.
I mean,
Do you really expect a mosaic,
To turn out like a sculpted angel?
So throw me all your words,
Use them as a weapon,
After all, I've already cut myself open.
I wouldn't need your bitter soul to tell me how much of the world I've taken.
And in return of your kindness,
I would take all of your pictures,
And shred them into pieces.
Throw them into the fire,
Along with your unrealistic expectations.
And watch it burn,
And burn;
Until the word doesn't linger.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 8:12 AM UTC
You pick on me,
Like strings.
Leaving none attached for me to pull myself together,
After the wreck.
I mean,
Do you really expect a mosaic,
To turn out like a sculpted angel?
So throw me all your words,
Use them as a weapon,
After all, I've already cut myself open.
I wouldn't need your bitter soul to tell me how much of the world I've taken.
And in return of your kindness,
I would take all of your pictures,
And shred them into pieces.
Throw them into the fire,
Along with your unrealistic expectations.
And watch it burn,
And burn;
Until the word doesn't linger.
thank you for telling me that I am not good enough for anything and everything; at least I got a poem out of it.
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