*tw: extreme self hatred, death mention*
I tremble and I sniffle and
tears fall down my face
as I stop my pacing and confront myself
in the mirror, saying,
"I don't have to tell anyone. I'm fine."
And I classify
my loneliness as insignificant,
my feelings unworthy of attention.
I won't be vulnerable.
I won't be a burden.
I won't be weak.
Then I breathe, and I sigh,
wiping my tears and hating myself
for making a big deal out of nothing
once again.
Minuscule.
My problems are minuscule.
You'd have to use a microscope
in order to see them.
And your eyes would feast upon a small, pathetic excuse for an issue.
Unimportant but
somehow so heavy, weighing down
on your shoulders.
Then I'd cry more, wishing I could take
that problem off of you
or even destroy it, but
I've got so many weighing me down
that I'm almost six feet underground.
So I stare up at you
from my hole, wishing I
had never said a thing, waiting to be
buried alive.
So I battle my feelings and bottle them up
scribbling on the bottle
"do not open until later, when you're alone".
Then I open it up, filled with a
morbid curiosity like Pandora,
releasing all of my insecurities and
memories of breakdowns and my feelings
and mistakes.
But I am the only one
who feels the weight of my suffering.
I stand, alone, underground,
claustrophobic and afraid, yet content.
I am content with suffering alone.
And now I wait
for the tombstone to be set
way above my head, when they finally
realize how dead I am inside.
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poetry❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
