A Collection of Poems

It

08/06/14

It isn't a hole, a tunnel, an end.

It isn't the absence of a friend.

It isn't the darkness, or the fear.

It isn't shown in tears.

It isn't a sadness, vice, hate.

It isn't an act of fate.

It isn't a life;

Though it steals life away.

        The dead thing growing inside of me

        Can't help but want to be free.

        Clawing and crushing

        It doesn't mean to kill.

        

        It isn't a murderer but, 

        A gentle stirrer.

It is the cuts on my skin,

For I want to be thin.

It is the sound of my voice,

With the absence of noise.

It is a matter of time

A second, a dime.

It is burning inside

Frying my mind.

It is I freezing over;

That four leaf clover

I'll never find.

It's in my mind.