People use me as a sort of marketing ploy,
To boost their success in the game of life.
I am but a tree, surrounded by my brethren,
I remain unimportant, unphasable to the naked eye,
Yet people still wish to cut me down in size,
Whilst my faceless counterparts stay untouched.
People fortified landmarks in place of my seedlings,
Restricting me of what I had wanted to say,
Structures to give them entitlement, my bark looked
Too spoilt for modern progression, as steel beams and pipes
Acidified the once nitric soil.
I am but a visually perplexing Saharan lion.
People had told me to think complexly, so once
I began to strut blissfully, my head held to a peak,
My flesh was catered away in a single snapshot, to post
On social media, bullets permeating in my arched back,
As I tumbled into pits of sand.
Now my glossy decapitated head sell as social media
Statuses, as a competition outside of my prospection.
Did I appear to carry myself as a prize for them?
If I had have made course with respiration,
I would be but a captive species, lodged within the fourth
Wall of an intercity zoo, where people spit over the tapering,
Poking the wobbly glass, as I try to disassociate by remaining
Still.
I am but a statue of remembrance.
A once mighty symptom of revolution, now caramelized
In the fractions of an abandoned museum, or an abandoned
Renaissance.
My wings holy and shatter with the littlest poke.
I am but a whale.
I echolocate between what people do not wish to hear
For themselves, they wield harpoons and carve against
My dorsals, making their name seep through my bloodstream,
I harp against my wounds, choking on my goopy blubber.
I am but an omen.
Once a mockingbird, an omen not to sin against,
My lack of self-efficiency disrobed me to a crow, a bleak
Omen of sin itself.
I am but a coward.
A wolf with prominent padded shoulders, made of twigs
And branches and dead leaves. My fangs made of
Thrown away toothpicks.
I am but a hermit crab.
I isolate lodged in my shell, a plethora of alone time spent,
As sticky fingers straddle me, the pounding their
Shouting makes unbearable.
I am but a doll.
My mouth has remained stitched since birth, my bones
Becoming rags, strewn up cloth.
Manhandling me with pins and needles,
I can never see the truest view of life from my button eyes.
People use for better gain,
I'm using your emotions to garner empathy.
I'm an addict as the title implies.
YOU ARE READING
Shuttle Bus 17: A Poetry Collection
PoésiePoetry from a discombobulated seventeen year old boy. From falling in love to hating parties to loving where you're from, I/you/he tries to truly understand life's prophecies through writing it all down.
