Alone is where I lay,
Consumed by the darkness of the night.
I shout out to the void,
Begging for someone to hear.
For I am a lone soldier,
On the battlefield with poppies sprouting from
The undead sea.
Thoughts blaring in my ears,
For I am deafened by my own negativity.
The plague I call depression,
The sickness I preach: anxiety,
The hatred of my own body,
Body dysmorphia;
It is killling me.
My body is not pure.
My mind is not pure.
I am sickened by the thoughts of terror and trauma.
Oh, how I wish to be thirteen.
Naïve, young and hopeless:
I am simply a wonderer.
Who am I?
Truly I am someone remarkable but I am a liar.
I tell those lies,
Those thick white lies my mother told me not to spread.
Yet,
I did,
Regardless of what was ruled and what was forbidden.
Granted the passage to beauty and misfortune,
Oh my love.
Grant me one more night as we lay above the sunken ship we call our day,
I beckon to you,
I plead, I beg,
That I am feeble,
I am weak,
Praying for the slight drop of affection you give me,
On a cold drunken night.
Because I'm an easy target,
You throw your arrows straight into my heart.
Saying all the right words to let my love for you,
Flourish into forests of what ifs and uncertainty.
My heart brews jealousy, envy, disgust,
Your arms never belong in the place I wanted to call home so badly.
"Let me spend one more night in your arms."
Before I need to go,
Forever. At last.
Perhaps I propose this to you,
What does one more life add to this world?
And what does one less take away?
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
