“
The other day,
the doctor told me,
I wasn’t getting enough of sleep,
thus the prescription pills,
as if my mind,
was switch,
to turn on and off.
Sadness,
was etched in my bones,
and I knew this,
the day you threw words at me,
because I felt my blood drain,
but the sadness lurked within.
Sticks and stones may break your bone,
but words,
they rip your soul,
it’s been months,
but don’t you dare think,
I have forgotten,
what you have said to me,
people underestimate,
a great deal,
the hearts they break,
while trying to find the ‘right one’.
This isn’t about love,
it started when I was eight,
when I didn’t ace maths,
pressure building up,
to be perfect,
to get somewhere,
words haunting,
that never really left,
and you might have broken me,
but I had nothing really much,
to break either.
This isn’t a self-empathy poem,
after many months,
I am finally writing to you,
to tell you,
I will get over you,
it will take time,
I just want you to know,
that I heard your heart stop for a second,
when I said,
“maybe we will get married someday”,
and maybe you knew,
we weren’t going to last,
but that didn’t give you the right,
of drowning me in your words,
as if,
I was your private diary,
to write off guilt and regrets.
This is a poem,
because after many sleepless nights,
my mind has finally sorted out what’s right,
and that’s getting over you,
even if it means,
dusting up my bones.
”
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 4:15 AM UTC
“
The other day,
the doctor told me,
I wasn’t getting enough of sleep,
thus the prescription pills,
as if my mind,
was switch,
to turn on and off.
Sadness,
was etched in my bones,
and I knew this,
the day you threw words at me,
because I felt my blood drain,
but the sadness lurked within.
Sticks and stones may break your bone,
but words,
they rip your soul,
it’s been months,
but don’t you dare think,
I have forgotten,
what you have said to me,
people underestimate,
a great deal,
the hearts they break,
while trying to find the ‘right one’.
This isn’t about love,
it started when I was eight,
when I didn’t ace maths,
pressure building up,
to be perfect,
to get somewhere,
words haunting,
that never really left,
and you might have broken me,
but I had nothing really much,
to break either.
This isn’t a self-empathy poem,
after many months,
I am finally writing to you,
to tell you,
I will get over you,
it will take time,
I just want you to know,
that I heard your heart stop for a second,
when I said,
“maybe we will get married someday”,
and maybe you knew,
we weren’t going to last,
but that didn’t give you the right,
of drowning me in your words,
as if,
I was your private diary,
to write off guilt and regrets.
This is a poem,
because after many sleepless nights,
my mind has finally sorted out what’s right,
and that’s getting over you,
even if it means,
dusting up my bones.
”
