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Poetry Is My Suicide
Contributed by
lost_chadow
on
Saturday, 8th March 2008 @ 01:12:27 PM in AEST
Topic:
anguished
|
Why cut wrists when I can dissect
tear open my chest
and view the pain that I digest?
Keep your weapons of mass enlightenment
I'd reather speak death, my death,
for as much as anyone would notice, I'm dead.
For all they see is a self-inflicted mockery of me:
a powerful speaker, a great leader for peace
but my poetry is not a bomb of high speech
it's a mirror of what I am and how I think
my own selfish thing
and if you don't care what I say
unless I'm lauding Dr. King
beacause I'm only seventeen
then you don't care about me.
If that's the cold reality,
then thanks to you,
I sink in this frozen sea
of sayings and happenings that mean
absolutely nothing to me.
And you say the waste of such a bright mind
is a tragedy
but if all you see in me is a bright mind
then love truly is a travesty.
How could you not see
the pain and rage that engulf me?
The hopelessness I battle
and the affection that I seek?
Why can't you tell that I wish to remove
all traces of my humanity
just so I'll be okay with being me?
'Cause if love doesn't exist
then it's not my fault that I'm loveless,
just my fault that I'm lovesick
how convenient!
If I'm too smart to be loved
then it means I'm not too ugly, too tubby
and everything else can just be...
I could go to school 'cause that's
what I'm supposed to do
and make lots of money
to give nice things to my Pulitzer wife
and 2.5 Einstein abies
Forget happy, I'd rather be crazy!
Forget logical, I'd rather be ugly
Because as long as the pain doesn't go away
I'm unique
As long as I don't fit in society
I'm still me
that's why in my own words, my poetry
eviscerates my heart to say I'm lonely,
and slices my wrists to say I'm weak
I blow open my head and splatter my brains
on the wall to say I'm confused
Confused as to how I always feel by myself
in a full room!
When is my full bloom?
Where is my stupid teen movie where someone
looks beyond my faltering smile
and finds it necessary to just hug me?
See each time I ask these questions aloud
I strike myself and bleed
so that being laughed at or ignored won't so terribly wound me
and it's these wounds that drive me to be
me
smiling and funny, warm and cuddly
even when inwardly
I'm cold and muddy
My fear and depression/suppression are what shape my identity
so that's why instead of saving the world
I'd rather just kill me.
Copyright ©
lost_chadow
... [
2008-03-08 13:12:27]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Poetry Is My Suicide
(User Rating: 1 )
by unknown_utopia on
Saturday, 8th March 2008 @ 01:36:49 PM AEST
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a Message)
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wow
this is so good... |
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Re: Poetry Is My Suicide
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Saturday, 8th March 2008 @ 04:33:37 PM AEST
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a Message)
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Brillant.
A raw and most powerful expression of yourself and your thoughts.
Take care
Christina |
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