The sweetest form of self destruction, tearing myself down from mine own construction,
Seeing myself as a reduction, at least it's some form of production;
At least it's some kinda of progression, one unfuelled by aggression,
Perhaps it's charmed by obsession, not necessarily a digression.
No desire to be empty but a fear of being full, seemingly no brain inside the skull,
Caught between push and pull, all of it just sounds like such bull,
Shit, maybe they're right, she should just be content, no reason to be sad and no need to repent,
Yet her foul mood just seems to relent, such little time and it's so poorly spent.
She spends it on numbers, amongst other things, maybe those numbers cause her moodswings,
Perhaps it's all amongst fools and kings, frustration is all it ever seems to bring.
YOU ARE READING
An Amalgamation of Words
PoetryI'm almost as bad at writing descriptions as I am at writing poems, but at least I tried. Sharing my inner turmoil, one poorly worded sentence at a time.
