Poems of a broken artist

Talking back.

The fist in my throat as you ask me a question and yell more when I answer.

The knife in my back that I feel coming every time you are there.

The words from my mouth,   feel like blood spilling from my throat.

How will I ever get out of this grave you say I dug myself?

When will I be old enough to finally tell you that this 6 feet hole was dug by you,   and I just stepped in it?

I only say the truth and I'm thrown deeper,     but if I lie then the knife goes deeper.

The only way through this maze of broken glass is you,   but I'm sick of you.

I wish I could read your mind,   but you would only tell me more awful things,   not the way to navigate this conversation.

Because in truth,   it doesn't matter what I say,   what I do,   what I feel,   you will still continue to yell.

Then you will hurt me as well.

Your words hurt like hell,   and in my silence you swell,   do you hate me as well?

Or do you just like to yell?

I can't fight back,   so what does it matter the answer.

I'll find my way out,   no matter what.

So SCREW YOU.

(Author's note:

         I'm in a writing frenzy but I'm going to try to upload more often and constant from now on,                        If possible.

                               Have a wonderful day! -CN)