Sometimes,
I liked to reckon
that my life was the perfect example
of the gilded age.
So bloody pretty on top,
so rotten within.
Things have changed since then.
A fractured diagnosis bled through,
signs of major depression caught fire
when scorned with new diseases.
Post Traumatic Stress,
except- Baby, I was always told
that was for soldiers.
Bi-Polar by stress-
seemed like a knock off drugstore lie.
Like the kind of thing that passes through an
addicts lips when they need the newest fix.
Darling... Come off your pedestal,
nobody is fooled.
We've been playing this game
for as long as I can remember...
'How are you?'
'Medium Rare and in need of salt'
and eventually,
the sarcasm bothers you-
so you have to diagnose that too.
'A defense mechanism,
walls that go on forever, miles thick.'
Author notes
Still working on this.
A contest entry
- Confessions of a poet gone mad by requiempoet.
1600 points, ended November 13, 8 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Meh.
Comments
-
Even though you're still working on this it is simply penned in words that can be described as beautiful and sarcastic....a way that I describe myself in. :-) Thank you for entering the contest.
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