My eyes grow sick of their own cyanity.

And blinking merely hastens the withdrawal.

How can novelty drugs be so familiar?

When the crepuscular screams sound vaguely choral.


In even terms, I balance myself,

and fix the world of its smallest woes.

Because I will maintain the illusion

that I am a thornless rose.


In reality my sobriety helps

but I crave the distortion.

My shaking hands will navigate

to the substance of mental contortion.


Because in the end I have no time

for those who do not want me.

And my serenity is wasted 

on those who act responsibly.


Because I don't care about that

which others spill tears for.

And I couldn't give a fuck

if they feel agony from their very core.


Because they are meaningless -

statistics in a book.

Not worth the effort,

 not from this old crook.


But none of this is true,

when I think of their eyes;

so sullen and sad

at the prospect of their demise.

And I would give anything,

to help them not hurt.

Because I reciprocate their pain

in a way I cannot subvert.

So I will help until I change,

because I make myself better.

  • Author: Luke (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: July 20th, 2017 02:20
  • Comment from author about the poem: Who I am and why I do what I do aren\\\'t always clear to me. At the time of writing this poem however, I felt like I understood at a basic level what my purpose is or was. Doubtless I will become confused again at some point, but a documentation of who I feel I am might give me better insight next time. And hopefully anyone who reads this poem can relate to some of my feelings. Enjoy :)
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 22
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  • ummbree

    I love the honesty in this poem! very well-written.

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