Blog, Creative, Poetry

It sits in your chest

heavy and angry and dark, sucking up

all your energy

mocking your movements

any attempt at all

you make pretending

you’re worthwhile

full of life

and plans and ideas.

A go-getter

a real fuckin’ self-starter.

It laughs as your arms

flail around,

fingers forming fists

scribbling emotions on a page.

You try to be the thing you think you are

but it tells you your value:

dirt at the base of a grave.


You aren’t expecting

and you can’t rid

the lifeless lead from your

wrists and shoulders and heart

your ankles and eyelids and lips.

You can’t make faces that say

Yes I’m fine thank you

No really I’m okay.

You’ve lost the drive

to leave the couch

change out of your sweats

look nice for no reason at all.

You are made of stains and tears and lead

and your days are filled with monotony

wondering if and when and how

you can roll your body to the window

and toss yourself out

because at least maybe then

you can crack or dent or diminish

whatever it is inside of you.

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