This illness in my mind is terminal.
There is nothing that can cure it.
It speaks oh so nonsensical.
It’s to be honest, quite hysterical.
I shot myself in the end
Whilst lamenting in my bathtub.
The hysteria was just too much
For my shattered heart to handle.
The judge declared her the winner.
I whimpered in defeat.
I didn’t even place.
Maybe I’m just not that unique
Or damaged enough for poetry.
The metallic taste of blood
As I drown in senseless grief
Tells me I’m not good enough.
To get back on my feet.
Her flared trousers tell me.
She has a great sense of style!
My black eyeliner.
It tells others I’m a coward.
A lamb ready for slaughter.
No Baphomet or Muhammad
Just a lost girl.
Locked in a vault of failure.
Being served defeat.
Getting grimaces from the waiter.
It’s th-the illness.
It’s forming cracks in my bonce.
It’s preventing me from winning.
From ever being at the top.
She may always win.
With her pale moon skin.
Her suction cup stomach.
Her body so thin.
Just another **** failure, aren't I?
Laying dead in a bathtub.
poem I wrote (with a couple edits) for a 24hr poetry contest. I was feeling a tad salty about this one chick.
24 hours ago I was someone different
but right now I'm crying right where I'm sitting:
in this old photo booth on the side of the beach
where you left me after saying that we should end things
because this wasn't turning out the way that you expected it to be.
24 hours without.
Strip off the clothes that enveloped you
And have been my armor for the past day.
I try to convince myself I'm not washing you away.
That I'm not sending the sensations
Of your soft skin on mine
Down the drain.
I turn the water temperature up high,
Because maybe the heat will burn through a layer of my storm cloud,
And I wait a while before stepping under the flow,
Hugging my arms tightly around my aching frame.
A song comes on and then another and another
And my tears intermingle with the warmth surrounding me.
It's hard to always be on the verge.
Makes it difficult to speak.
So I close my mouth
And I lock up my heart.
You once whispered to me:
"It's hard to feel this sad and this happy
At the same time."
What a paradoxical feeling.
When the water runs free of shampoo and bubbles,
And I fear you've gone,
I curl up into a towel
Which is soaked in the scent
Of fresh lilies.
Guess there's no way I can get rid of you that easily.
She's still here with me in little ways. LDR life.
— The End —