I tend to struggle most days.
Disasterous cries and
One-track minds,
No one is safe from
The demons that plague them
Knowing my mind when I'm
Neither happy nor sad drags
Oxygen to my dirty lungs, but
Without you I'm an anxiety attack waiting to happen.
Who I am when I'm okay defines
How I feel when I'm up in arms
Only I know how to take everything I love away
I am not as content as I used to be.
Are you happy with the way your hand fit around
My throat?
Are you content with the way I
Never seem to notice, when you
Don't care for me as much as I care for you?
W
I
T
H
O
U
T
Y
O
U
I
M
L
O
S
T
Boisterous laughter hidden
Under eyes wet with unshead
Tears.
Is there anything I love
More than feeling down? more
Than trying to pick myself up off of
Rusted metal flooring?
You know
I'm only as okay as the
Night is dark under a bright
Glowing moon
There is nothing special about
Only loving yourself under the sun.
Finally
I realize
Nothing I say has been good to my
Disasterous
Mind. but I guarantee that
You will never have my
Soul and that one day
Everything I
Love will save me in the
Final battle against you.
This poem is one of my favorites, not because I think it's all that poetic (though there is a message). But if you go back and read the first letters of each line in succession (only the capitalized ones) you'll see why ;)
YOU ARE READING
Incipient
PoetryIN•CIP•I•ENT inˈsipēənt/ adjective •in an initial stage; beginning to happen or develop. •(of a person) developing into a specified type or role.
