The self is so absorbed
In its misery and solitude
Complaining of getting bored,
Scoffing at every interlude
Most time is spent
Dodging at the blow
And hiding every dent
Is thought worth wasting?
They're like blowing bubbles
That eventually pop
Soaring and diving― and pop!
Till nothing could put a stop,
Puddles so great you can't even mop
The self― ish, is as we are
For we, the self, or I,
Think too hard
Then pose as a bard,
Buttering up this image
That get some subdued,
Obsessed about lineage
And romanticizing abuse
I am a bubble, see-through
Till I run out of air,
And then I'll let me brew
In my favorite brand of despair
Because― the self is so absorbed
In its misery and solitude,
Complains of getting bored,
And scoffs at every interlude.
YOU ARE READING
❁𝗥ê𝘃𝗲𝘂𝘀𝗲❁
PoetryThis collection of poems is for those that stay up at night, mind whirring with thoughts, those that fight to stay at the surface when reality drowns them. Finally, these poems are for me, for when reality drowns me, and I sink to the bottom of the...
