I wander around my own head purposely, trying and failing to pick the tangled strings apart. I close my eyes and concentrate fruitlessly on wobbling across the tightrope, towards the swaying, dispersing and dwindling soots of a silhouette of someone who was supposed to look like me. I gather the severed tatters of my goals and pour them in a broken jar, my ambition ebbing away along with the waning shambles of what's left of the path I once carved for myself in liquid melancholy. With a mirthless smile, I find myself stutter on a thought; these days I miss who I wanted to be, for I don't recognize who I've become. I stare in the mirror in the dark hollows of the rapidly blinking orbs of a stranger. I blink, she blinks but when I frown, she smiles. I cry, she cackles. I whimper, she giggles. I choke, she chuckles. I gasp, she smirks and when I die a little, she kills me more and I once again find myself grimacing in the name of a smile, mouthing: these days I miss who I wanted to be, for I don't recognize who I've become.
YOU ARE READING
Final Throes Of The Unfurling
Poetry"I strived to rise but every rise has a fall, I quit, I quit and that's all." Just a bunch of emotions sucked by the pen and bled on the pages. Can be seen in the dried marks on the pillow, Dark hollows of rapidly blinking eyes, And the corners of...
