Slip satire into the vocabulary, elaborate every phrase with indignation, and the subject progresses to silence. Existentialist souls don't come about this young, so the intended must have lost it somewhere.
Sixteen is far too young to even consider dying, but it has happened at heart breaking intervals, a misconstrued call for attention. Instead of bothering to attend funerals, we scratched eulogies onto old napkins and sent them to the sea. After awhile, the church bells stop ringing, and then, Darling, that's it. Nothing comes after, no heaven above- no hell below, and no more mourning here.
He bruised my esophagus in an attempt to alliterate the needs of the people, barely realizing that at some point breathing is necessary. Safe word or not, sometimes, you just stop feeling comfortable in those situations. Eventually, after enough of them- I stopped bothering to scream. If there is any advice to the masses, that I would be willing to give, it would be that you can spot a fraud by how eagerly they recount the pain.
(While the fresh blood are all sharing scar stories, telling about how much they hurt- the old souls are sitting in the background trading pills through kisses. The older they seem to get, the less likely they are to talk, and the more likely they are to trade scars instead of lies.)
Author notes
I tried to dredge up enough hurt to write- but instead I just wrote about what you were talking about.
Anyway- this was based off a brief time spent in the mental 'ward'.
The little teenagers who were fresh in... They all told their stories so easily.
The people who'd been in there a while, distracted each other instead.
The ones that had been the longest though? The ones who were 'in and out' of the system-
Dear God, I have never met a larger group of Sadomasochists in one area. They would rather hurt each other- physically, mentally... didn't matter to them.
The first lines refer to the fact that I ended up there because of sarcasm. 'Do you want to die?'
'Of course I do. Every day of my pathetic, little life.'
Anyway, I'm Danneh- though if you're looking for previous references of 'style' as you so put in a few comments.. I don't really have one. Don't write much these days. Most of what you'll find is prompted emocrap.
A contest entry
- hurt. by Lauren Noir.
1300 points, ended August 15, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Meh.
Comments
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I like this, I DQed another one like it, but I actually really liked this. A very interesting entry.
I liked your bluntness, I agree with most of it, and still it sounded quite poetic, which is very good.
Well done. Thank you for entering.
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