#malcontent
Do you mind if I sing out loud?
The world doesn't want someone who is too sad,
but it doesn't care for someone who is too happy either.
It's unnatural, and it's fake.
I'm a liar
because I say 'I love you' enough that I have no regrets?
because I look in the mirror and smile at myself?
because I sing out loud.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
casually crying
internally dying
obviously lying
about the pain
coursing through
all my veins
my blood is poisoned
with personal anguish
avoid my feelings
bolt home
distract
to avoid contact
with my emotions
of deep distress
refuse to confess
i cant suppress
the misery
any longer
i admit it
i can't drown
in my agony
anymore
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
How hard can it be? Poetry can break the normal rules, or follow them just the same, or even yet write its own rules. There is no teacher breathing down my neck, holding my grade in a vice. Nobody is forcing me to write these poems, yet I feel compelled to create them.
Ive got so many words to describe just what I want, but somehow none sound right.
I know just what I want to say and who to say it to, but I can't confront these demons.
How can I have all the right words, but put them together all wrong?
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
Severing fingernails, so to, chopped the
toe’s, ate some berries and snuck in a nip
or two. I assert myself, “this drink’s if only
to steal, or seal one last scream,” but,
“decadent’s,” quiet for once; A calm
christened, “collateral,” the parallel plight
and pale ear nigh, if only doors down.
Left to my own devices, I’d imagined
every bad, “thing,” and how they’d
happen; Exact and unlike random
aneurism. So I checked on the plants one
last time. I checked on the only flower,
once again, if only doors down, and one
last time. I abide impatient and remain to
question eternity; This twiddling of thumbs
and silent sliver of sun peeking upon one
and opposing, my alien, “East,” –
I long for my only, “West,” and if only
home, but its love, the other love that locks
my only gate.
And with that I’d lay awake and be, a
guarantee, malcontent, remnant come only
one reminder; A twitch under my right eye
and promised son but days later. So
continued my sequence, my defiance, my
only anything; Come one, “Oh!” and two,
yawped not for Walt, but for me,
“Onward!” awake and in an awkward
avoidance of complacent.
Ensued, were the acts of rebellion, the acts
of life, the acts of desperation in the face of
an already dead incarnation. One day to be
labeled, my suicide, at ends wrought
insurrection and beneath the twin flags,
insomnia added anticipation – Perhaps my
last, should the wolves cull come the hours
next when beds are made, supper’s sooner
cold and once more, the stars are allowed to
sing for someone, for something, else.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC