book of poems

BROKEN BOTTLE

  I give up, 

My bottle has broken, 

My shell has been damaged, 

I have been hurt.

Trust is funny like that,

 your lucky if you see this, 

it means I've healed, 

from a broken bottle and damaged shell.

 I remember all my choices,

 on these dark nights,

 where I keep my mouth closed,

 and shout in my mind.

This might be pessimistic,

 but I'm not idealistic,

 I'm broken,

 damaged,

 hurt,

 and all I can do is cry.

 Punching a pillow, 

that's my anger,

 for my bottle finally broke,

 the tears I'm crying,

 Is from the bottle like a great typhoon,

 carrying shards of glass.

 The sadness,

  And the chaos, 

 Really makes you wonder.

How a simple word,

 Can put on a mask,

 How it can make a character.

My character hides how broken I am,

 My character hides overflowing tears,

 it's all fake,

 not real,

 just a character,

 not me.

Sometimes it's hard to spot me,

 not the character,

 I play,

 a character that haunts me, 

but yet, 

I still use it,

 My bottle is broken,

 and my shell is torn

My character can no longer save me.

 I let down my guard too much,

 And paid for it.

 But that's what I get,

 For trusting someone, 

A friend,

 you could say.

 What a beautiful thing sadness is, 

how terrible we keep it in a bottle, 

the chaos it unleashes when breaking.

 Is like no other,

 my mother,

 tells me to be strong,

 but it's ok to be wrong.

Sometimes I lie awake, 

eyes open, 

staring.

Re-living every moment, 

every time I did something I regretted.

 You could say this poem is sad,

 You could say it's even terrible.

 I'm just a kid crying on a pillow, 

But yet, 

I write like a wounded soldier.

 I'm not a soldier,

 But I am wounded.

I am a writer,

 This is how I feel.

Shrinks will call it depression,

 But I call it living,

 Because to live, 

You must first,

Die a little.

No not suicide,

But something else.

You can trust,

But sometimes it can break,

 A bottle.