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I carry stones around my neck:
On little strings each stone is tied.

And my throat is rough,
And it is dry,
And grotesquely torn from the weight of such pebbles----
Yes! With all my might I try to cross the river,
I call life with stones such as these around my neck.

Bitterly, I curse my burden;
I bight down,
Causing blood to seep from my tongue.
Silly! To never speak again.
But, would I?

No. Mine is the wrath of fallen angels;
Mine unholy vengeance-----the wails of self pity,
And of sorrow are the food I eat,
Is the wine I drink,
Is what fills my belly morning, noon, and night.

Ah, me! Mine is the voice of suffering.
You shall hear it always
For my voice carries.
It cannot be ignored,
Nor can it be forgotten----
Because I have been spoilt rotten;
I have been abused
By those I had assumed were protecting me.

Me. The only human being ever wronged.
It must be! For I carry stones around my neck,
Sharp, jagged, gnarly rocks that I have tied to string
That I have knotted with nimble fingers,
And wear with steely resolve.

Do not try and console me.
Do not try and hold me.
Do not try and love me,
Because your love hurts----I am finished with loving,
Or having or holding or taking! Especially, breaking!
I am through.

I cannot remain standing much longer. . . .
The burdens I bring are troublesome things;
They will not let me go,
Or leave me alone.
(It is their aim to have me rest in pieces.)

Knees buckle,
I end up sinking under the enormity of stones---
My stones----Of those I should have cherished,
For, though, their imperfections were great,
Their souls were bright,
Brimming over with love for me-----
But they had wronged me.
I, was only brimming over with contempt for them.
Oh! Yet, who was I? To think myself so perfect,
So martyred by the world around me?
Who was I?

I was a girl that carried stones around her neck:
On little strings each stone was tied,
Each with its own resentment,
Reminding me to crave sweet retribution----
Such stones buried me in the end,
And now, all that is left of me is ashes where my body used to be;
And a pitiful soul brimming over with regrets. . . .

This poem is Copyright © JakerBaker88