There's a whisper in my ear.
It tells me stories and I write them down.
Tales of little kids and alien morals
Cross my vision and swim away into nothing.
I put them in the cell phone
That my mother bought for me,
Marveling at how disenchanted I've grown
To the magic of distracting voices.
The syntax sings in my mouth as I mutter
The words I tap into the screen.
The navigation bar is stained piss yellow
And the afterimage reads 11% battery remaining.
My broken watch ticks aimlessly
As the words dribble from my fingers
Like the quiet cries of the song bird
Better poets have dreamed of.
There is no thought. There is no meaning.
A hopeless wart pretending to serve
Alongside the greats in the ever dwindling
Endeavor of immortality.
I think on what I've written.
I taste the verbs and snort the adjectives
And pretend my heart is racing because of them
And not the man staring blankly at a fading screen.
My lips are soft like her voice when I tremble.
I peel the skin off and mush the lower lip together
And force blood to rise, shrieking from the sore.
I taste the tang of red iron and imagine
The stories that would drip out of those lips as to why I mutilate their pathetic skin.
You don't ask me questions.
I don't tell any lies.
But we both avert our eyes when my sleeves ride up at work.
-
Author:
JCE (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 19th, 2021 09:47
- Comment from author about the poem: Self harm sucks. What's worse is knowing what you're doing is selfish and stupid, and doing it anyway because it's the only way you know of dealing with trauma. I'm still working on dropping the addiction. And I wear long sleeves to work so my biceps don't show off my insecurities. But it's something to work on. And that's worth smiling about.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 18
Offline)
Comments1
let no one, dictate: your worth!
those lines, they'll heal and scar
and flake and scare again
ingrain themselves into your skin, as deep as the pain that created them, But
they will also, Gift you lessons
should you heed them
not because, that's what's Best for you
not because, those who Love you - want you to,
no! none of that matters
instead, dear Poet
next time your trembling fingers pass over those scars, in the middle of the night
don't brush past hurriedly,
take your time, let your fingertips - linger
try
and force yourself to remember what you felt,
Before, During and most Importantly: After...
that hollowness, seeping-in
that's the futility, in self-harm;
that shame and embarrassment, welling up, that's from knowing: you would do anything to save your loved ones from going through this pain,
and those tears, are your repressed feeling's begging for an avenue of escape
because if you don't share them and 'Shed them',
but instead harbour and continue to allow them to dictate your life,
all they'll do is fester and insure that part of your heart,
'hurts gangrene for life!
if you're seeking help, already: good for you..
if you're not, remember
a friend with an empathetic ear
is just as effective as a therapist,
you just need to find someone to trust
and Choose to Fight!
by unloading all that ache inside
then, maybe one day
when the world you see isn't so bleak and blurry
reach out your hand and help someone else, survive and fight
pay it forward and find yourself growing
into the person
You Know You Already Are: Inside!
(forgive me for writing such an overzealous and impassioned - cringe, of a comment)
thanks for sharing,
'Fight the good fight' and trust, that's all anyone can ever ask of you!
'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'
( https://mypoeticside.com/show-classic-poem-30915 )
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