untitled

I’m going to write you this one last poem
but I’m tired of talking
all this emotional shit is exhausting
I’ve written pages and pages
of sensitive outpourings
I wrote you some shit
and called it “your poem”
it was okay
it was meant to final

 

If you want the truth
I AM NOT OKAY
I am broken inside
and tired of saying
that things will work out
and tired of saying
that I will find myself
and tired of saying
that your reasons were good
and tired of saying
that I love you

 

If you want the truth
THIS SILENCE IS KILLING
what semblance of reason
I have left inside me,
and the craziest shit is
I don’t even want to talk to you
I tell myself I can forgive
but I just don’t know how to
and I don’t even know if that’s what you want now,
at the same time I want what he had
but to be truthful I don’t think that’s possible
because you fucking BLEW IT UP
destroyed in the name of self-discovery
like it was a cancer that needed to be removed
for your recovery

 

If you want the truth
IT WAS NOT A CANCER
I’m not saying we didn’t have problems
but what couple doesn’t
and it was good, and maybe you can’t see that
maybe all that’s left is some fucking sentiment
Ah thanks Nat King Cole!
fuck all the sentimental reasons
I’d rather just have the love

 

If you want the truth
YOU’VE MADE ME A MESS
reduced me to the point of irrelevance
and I can’t turn to any precedence
of feeling whole or feeling sane
because I never had that,
you look like you’re doing well
good for you
at least one of isn’t living a hell
I am overwhelmed by my feelings of insanity
and no matter how many pages I fill
I won’t gain back my humanity
I’m not claiming you did this
maybe you did maybe you didn’t

 

If you want the truth
I’M TIRED OF TALKING
isn't that hilarious?
we aren’t talking
I’m writing to you
but you might as well be a fucking wall
because we are lacking the fundamental
give and take that one finds in a game of catch
that didn’t rhyme did it?
that's the point
I’m tired of rhyming
I’m tired of talking
to myself

 

If you want the truth
I WANT IT ALL TO END
to fast forward to five months from now
I’m sitting in a dorm
and talking to people and feeling normal
I can forget this emotional baggage I wear on my sleeve
and yeah that’s my tattoo
I wash it off
and wash away the last three years with you
make it five
maybe it would be better if we had never met
except I’m so bound by my fucking philosophy
that’s carved on my arm
and carved on my chest,
and carved on my dreams
and carved on my heart
that stupid phrase, “It is better to have loved and lost
than never loved at all”
thanks Tennyson, you’re a real pal
why couldn’t you tell us to just drown
ourselves in booze and drugs
and slip away into unreality

 

If you want the truth
I MISS YOU
it's a simple thing
and now my rhymes are gonna
stop
maybe I loved you more than you ever loved me
nah, I think we just switched places
except I don’t depend on you
you are not my reason for sanity
even if your leaving is my reason for insanity
I’m not really insane
I’m just melodramatic
maybe I’m trying to impress
or maybe I want fill this page
with the violent explosions I feel in my veins
that’s a bit deceptive, don’t you think?

 

If you want the truth
POETRY IS NOT A CURE
when I started to write
I felt normal for the first time
I felt empowered by my rhyme
and my rhythm,
and so this is the fourteenth poem
in less than two days
I keep filling these pages
but the pain won’t go away
the stuff I write
probably doesn’t sound as good
as it does in my head
but that’s because I know just
how much hatred heartache and hope
I pour out on the edge of my bed
because I am on my knees
praying this pain goes away

 

If you want the truth
I AM NOT OKAY
THIS SILENCE IS KILLING
IT WAS NOT A CANCER
YOU’VE MADE ME A MESS
I’M TIRED OF TALKING
I WANT IT ALL TO END
I MISS YOU
POETRY IS NOT A CURE

 

If you want the truth
i don’t know where this leaves us
i don’t know if there’s anywhere to be left
i guess i just needed to write this shit down
and trust me it’s all organic
i wrote this poem in thirty minutes
from beginning to end
with little refinement
and i already hate it
my poems aren’t a sin because of what i write
they’re a sin because in five years of knowing you
i never let you talk and i'm drowning you
under more words.      

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741