I Want To Write Poetry From The Soul
Nurtured Bitterness
I look up at her, the once majestic pine tree whose branches had held me close, whose dried up leaves had wiped away the salt stained water that fell from my eyes.
“It’s your fault, you should have spoken, it’s your fault you shouldn’t have played along. It's your fault”.
The jagged, broken edges of her frozen words come crashing down, piercing, cutting, stabbing deep into my frail heart, slicing at the dignity that remained.
“I told you, you didn’t listen. I was so young, you didn’t listen. I told you but you didn’t believe me, you weren’t there for me. I told you.”
My useless attempts to get the attention of my idol are drowned out by the screams of society, begging me to shut up, by the whispers of the lingering monsters who just want to play.
Society tells me forget about it, to forgive her and accept her, to idolize her once more. I look at her now and all I want to do is scream.
To tell her that It’s her fault, that the screams she ignored where fueled by the monsters who lived not under my bed but in it. That the tears I shed were not because I lost a game, but because I couldn’t escape it.
The mangled, blood stained claws of the monster scrape towards me, longing for company in my cold empty bed.
I turn toward her now begging her to keep the monsters out of my bed, to put a stop to this never ending massacre as I move my pieces the wrong way; To save what soul I have left.
I look back at the monster, His grip now loosening on me but tightening around the waist of the the one person I’d die for, the person whom I was supposed to protect, the last pure thing in my life.
I beckon to the monster, calling out for his attention, begging to be back in his grasp, to return to my cold bed.
Finally he turns his attention back on me, but not soon enough, he had already left his inescapable brand.
By the time I claw my way from his merciless grasp, the bloodstained slashes had ripped out my insides and left only the darkness of my hatred and fear.
I look up at the once majestic pine tree whose branches had held me close, and I no longer see the vibrant swirls and strokes of happy memories, I see a dark canvas with jarring strokes of crimson red.
I look up at her, the once majestic pine tree whose branches had held me close, whose dried up leaves had wiped away the salt stained water that fell from my eyes.
“It’s your fault, you should have spoken, it’s your fault you shouldn’t have played along. It's your fault”.
The jagged, broken edges of her frozen words come crashing down, piercing, cutting, stabbing deep into my frail heart, slicing at the dignity that remained.
“I told you, you didn’t listen. I was so young, you didn’t listen. I told you but you didn’t believe me, you weren’t there for me. I told you.”
My useless attempts to get the attention of my idol are drowned out by the screams of society, begging me to shut up, by the whispers of the lingering monsters who just want to play.
Society tells me forget about it, to forgive her and accept her, to idolize her once more. I look at her now and all I want to do is scream.
To tell her that It’s her fault, that the screams she ignored where fueled by the monsters who lived not under my bed but in it. That the tears I shed were not because I lost a game, but because I couldn’t escape it.
The mangled, blood stained claws of the monster scrape towards me, longing for company in my cold empty bed.
I turn toward her now begging her to keep the monsters out of my bed, to put a stop to this never ending massacre as I move my pieces the wrong way; To save what soul I have left.
I look back at the monster, His grip now loosening on me but tightening around the waist of the the one person I’d die for, the person whom I was supposed to protect, the last pure thing in my life.
I beckon to the monster, calling out for his attention, begging to be back in his grasp, to return to my cold bed.
Finally he turns his attention back on me, but not soon enough, he had already left his inescapable brand.
By the time I claw my way from his merciless grasp, the bloodstained slashes had ripped out my insides and left only the darkness of my hatred and fear.
I look up at the once majestic pine tree whose branches had held me close, and I no longer see the vibrant swirls and strokes of happy memories, I see a dark canvas with jarring strokes of crimson red.
22-25, F
