Categories > Original > Poetry

Another Pretentious Poem

by xAlesanaxScoutx 0 reviews

I'm emotionally weak when I'm sick.

Category: Poetry - Rating: G - Genres: Angst - Published: 2016-10-07 - 386 words - Complete

My insides are tearing me up
Wearing me down to an encasing of broken brittle bone
I'm allergic to the cells of bullshit lies coursing through my bloodstream
My face is tingling, battling my self-conscious with 100 degrees and back up orifices
I cannot do this, no, I do not want to do this
I don't have the energy to fight away this godforsaken slew of disease
I don't have the energy to fight for anything. I'm sick,
I'm sick in more ways than one
There are more shadows of rusty bullets than colors in the barrel of this gun
The barrel of this gun is emptying itself in my head, killing me with this palette of overdosed thoughts
Virus, virus, go away
You'll just be back another day
I'm so frustrated, filled to the brim with worthless coping mechanisms and a feeling in my gut that I only know to call sadness
Every night turns into morning
Midnight, one, one thirty, two
From stars to dust from dust to vacancy
Nothing helps
My apathy drains me from all judgement, from every goddamned instinct my seamstress if a mother taught me
Maybe you should-
No, no.
I can't take another two minutes of this once comfortable silence
I can't take another pistol loaded with empty words
I can't take another hour of going unheard
I need an escape
Nothing is real enough to fix this
This once glorified shadow of an imaginary friend
Scars are too permanent
The eggshells surrounding the crevices of my brain are crashing down like the old, cracked bricks of castle walls
I cannot feel for you
I can barely get a grasp on myself, who I once was, and the sick vessel of a soul that I will become
I cannot be there for you when I'm not even attending the office meetings in my head
When I'm practically bleeding out and pleading for you to let this go
To let me go
My body has given up on me
Everything has given up on a cure, on an answer
There is no living or being alive, no
There is no living like this
There is no breathing, no escape from the seventh layer of filth when every pore and indent and imperfection
Is clogged up with the stench of self pity
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