I feel as if I have a tainted mind, I reminisce about a false narrative to make me feel in constant pain and disgust from myself. Self loathing has became an art to me, and I can’t prevent the ruminating thoughts. Redundant for years to months to minutes of my mind putting horns on my head and saying I’m pure sin. My skin painted red. My eyes are black. I demonize and reflect then demonize again because I have blamed everything that has happened in my life on myself. My heart cries for me to stop but my mind has drawn to the conclusion that it must be this way, it is this way. It feels selfish of me to be around others because they can smell the self loathing lingering around my body. I don’t know if I try not to hate myself or if I ignore myself so I don’t have to come face to face of who I’ve become and what I’m not.
Idk how to write poetry
I owe you an explanation
I know you can’t fathom why,
If I’m here and so are you,
I won’t be yours and you won’t be mine
Here’s the thing:
I am but only one of me
Powerless against the hive
I can choose you but will they?
I don’t sit alone, I’m a table for five
He preens my feathers,
fans my flames-
he lets me grow, he lets me destroy him.
I am happy.
but you still flip off my street when you pass it.
this has been ******* me off for so long
A paper cut
A ****** machete
Became a thorn on the focus
Became the pause on the focus
A wail of the wee ones
A whirl on the freeways
Became a soft smothering
Became a daft splattering.
Morbidity is the deal of the week, and there's no way anyone will miss that for the world.
6th of March, 2018.
Shadows settle where warmth once stood
Beneath quilted covers
Emancipated, gaunt figures now linger there :
Reeking of desperation, to make sense of the cold.
O eternal dusk
And the dark side of the moon
Encompass, envelop and have us whole.
6th of March, 2018.
We'll hang up our cowls & capes
In the thick of the collapsed ruins
Cranking one last tune on expired phonographs
Groaning as osteofluorosis plays his merry tune again
Still, gazing with the vast emptiness of long-lost eyes,
As a long lost chord haunts these halls again, we mutter :
"I can hear it now, like I heard it then."
And after four months, the infernal typewriter roars again.
And soon, the next book will come to play.
Maiden of the black rag, your last encore is coming right up.
sometimes I lay awake at night
and fixate on things I shouldn’t
whispers of my own transgressions linger
although it seems disingenuous
I am eager to fill the space
between this world and the old
please ward away the chilling breeze
make them apologize
because silence was one of my worst decrees
nobody talks about the disappointment
from letting you down
not living up to the excitement
once the mania wears off
and my frequencies begin to lower
i sink back into normalcy
my shine becomes lackluster
like fools gold
my touch only turns your skin green
eventually everyone grows tired of me