it's like this - I wash the glasses because
I can't wash the sadness off me
and sadness is this humidity clinging to my insides,
etching a hole in my heart
and I feel so small, small, small.
it's like this - I put the glasses in the cupboard
(and this is not a pretty metaphor, these are just glasses)and they sound so loud when they touch each other;
it hurts my head
and I don't know if it's just me
but its utterly pathetic because
Iwasjustwashingthedishes and now I'm having a fucking existential crisis,
it's like this - I can't explain the anger coiling in my stomach
to people who've never felt it,
or how sometimes everything is so so loud
and this is not a classroom - it's a circle of Dante's hell,
I can't explain why it took me ten minutes to find the right pen for this poem (but the internet exists!!1)
or what it means to turn all that boiling blood to ink-
it's like this- I write this poem because
when i was a child i wanted to be free so i drank up the stars and walked on the thorns
and never let the salty water choke me.
i was stubborn
never stopped, never cared
but now that the shackles of sadness rattle,
i listen.
YOU ARE READING
Bloom.
Teen Fictiona collection of words ( memoir?) heavy edged with emotion and gently laced with confession. Somewhat encapsulated in the form of poems. Some mine, some not. inspired by literature, songs, real realities and fabricated/alternative ones.