51 liNes
This poem was written for a communications class I took, at a really bad spot in my college days. I was both writing to the assignment and my feelings, exploring the hopelessness I felt, and giving numbers and meaning to what I considered cruxes and failures. It was an interesting peek into my mind that was, unfortunately, lost upon my peers. I put it here now in the hope that someone else will understand it.
51 liNes
Shadoe Lass
The words are thick like lead.
They choke me till i’m dead.
“You are not a writer,”
is all I've heard they've said.
I can't sleep so why am I in bed?
It’s already 1 a.m.
I guess it’s nothing else but this,
me grasping for anything.
I can't believe that I
selfishly made her cry,
by talking like a basket case
about not caring if I die.
I’m never one to really try,
but now I’m miserable inside.
For what, reason number nine?
The walls they shake with might.
My arms are feeling numb,
and my stomach makes me run.
I can't see another reason
but the caffeine that I've drunk.
It's the last lasting source of fun,
when everyone has gone,
and I am here alone
pretending that I am loved.
In the beginning there was wit,
and verbiage quite a bit.
There was a story, and a life,
and a reason behind it.
Now the reason is not to sink.
I’m buoyed by the wrists,
held up by words and list,
and just hoping they can lift.
A 130 pound,
85 decibel sound.
1000 mgs proud,
lying on the ground.
Insisting all around
the weight didn't bring me down.
A 170 day
lie of is there pain,
and holding contained
thoughts of me afraid.
I don’t think they pertain
to how I am anyway,
but I promise I’m ok.
Yes, I promise, I’m OK.
51 liNes
Shadoe Lass
The words are thick like lead.
They choke me till i’m dead.
“You are not a writer,”
is all I've heard they've said.
I can't sleep so why am I in bed?
It’s already 1 a.m.
I guess it’s nothing else but this,
me grasping for anything.
I can't believe that I
selfishly made her cry,
by talking like a basket case
about not caring if I die.
I’m never one to really try,
but now I’m miserable inside.
For what, reason number nine?
The walls they shake with might.
My arms are feeling numb,
and my stomach makes me run.
I can't see another reason
but the caffeine that I've drunk.
It's the last lasting source of fun,
when everyone has gone,
and I am here alone
pretending that I am loved.
In the beginning there was wit,
and verbiage quite a bit.
There was a story, and a life,
and a reason behind it.
Now the reason is not to sink.
I’m buoyed by the wrists,
held up by words and list,
and just hoping they can lift.
A 130 pound,
85 decibel sound.
1000 mgs proud,
lying on the ground.
Insisting all around
the weight didn't bring me down.
A 170 day
lie of is there pain,
and holding contained
thoughts of me afraid.
I don’t think they pertain
to how I am anyway,
but I promise I’m ok.
Yes, I promise, I’m OK.
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