The Weight

I have tripped over luck and stumbled upon tragedy. I find myself stuck in an elevated, praised, honoured institution, full of the most vile and wretched creatures to fill this earth. My struggle is this: the everyday grind of venomous words and even more deadly silences that echo through the honoured halls of my school after I walk by. Beaten down and broken with the scars to show. The scars to show that I couldn’t take the pain. That the well of words have proved too much for my young, impressionable conscience to bear. The only salvation was that edge pressed into the plain white canvas that was my arm and is now my twelve and a half inch masterpiece of misery.

 

Now my pain is twisted and contorted into the explosion that is anger and violence and profanity. What was once light and airy pop is now dark and angsty rock. What was then a pleasant disposition is now an angry march towards one destination or another, always dragging on until my shoes are worn from that tower of tragedy strapped to my soul. And as I drag those dusty and frayed soles I forget to look to the future, and trip. Trip over my own suffering, down into that well of words that was too much to bear. Into that pit of screaming insults and threats, and in that never-ending hole of agony my own voice whispers those same words and they cut like knives into the last shred of my dignity.

 

So is my struggle. What’s yours?  

This poem is about: 
Me

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