Kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself
it isn't a poem anymore
not like this
nails set on the edge of skin
my mind wrapped around my sin.
-Sin, as in the definition of the
whole of myself,
as in my name;
what else am I but a black
and writhing monster
consuming and regurgitating
my frame,
eroding every bone-
the world panicked,
at my alive state.
kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself
the mantra in my head
and you want poetry?
Poetry is the stained glass picture
shattered and formed to abstract
and hidden meaning
is useless to me now.
The step before death is the process of dying
and I am one step from that
and you can shout the phrases then
think the taboo,
cross over lands
to no longer be in the world
kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself
I have no need to hide behind words
I can feel the monster's teeth
grate against my skin
the slicked mess of my fluid
and the saliva of his;
Poetry is meaningless
revoking consolation
kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself.
Author notes
It was a bad night for me when I wrote it. And I suppose that every writer needs to engage in bad, cliched topics, and bad, cliched writing once in awhile.
Comments
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loved it
i don't think it's bad or cliche. i really loved it. it was honest. you held nothing back- simply told it how it was. brilliant and beautiful. <3
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not bad or cliched I think
I loved this,
describes hellish nights perfectly,
very emotional, a numbed, I wanna give up, everything is meaningless type of way.
I hope you got some of the pain out through this. <3
its making me wanna write again.
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i thought this was good
i especially liked how you described what poetry was.
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