Buried beneath the
raw flesh of every scar
there lies a story, a veiled
truth manifested in the physical form.
If you listen
close enough they will
whisper, confessing our sins,
our triumphs, our follies and, even,
our secrets.
Category: Depression
Call me a Psychic | Poems that Suck
We'll chance upon each other, some day or evening a long time from now. By then my heart will have scabbed over, but still the edges are tender. You'll be excited - "it's been so long!" - but I'll be full of dread, caution. I'll regard you coolly, just enough detachment to make you unsure, ill at ease. I'll make some cutting remark, veiled in subtlety, then excuse myself from your company. You'll mull the comment over, repeating it in your mind, puzzling together its meaning. And slowly, you'll reach the soul of it and know that I'm still bleeding. You'll watch me from across the room, and I'll know by its focused heat, But I'm too old and too tired to play the games of young girls. You won't see me feigning laughter or pretending to flirt with some random person. I'll simply be me, as even keeled and placid as you knew I was. It will remind you of those quiet moments we shared, tangled in each other, Doing nothing but marveling at the miracle of love, the wonder of eachother's breathing. You'll then be in touch, and I'll hesitate but answer; no sense of preservation. You'll apologize for it all and I'll give you a halfhearted, watery kinda smile. (Actions, of course, speak louder than words and I'm simply mirroring your past indifference.) You'll realize too late, like they all do, that you made a huge mistake. But it'll make no difference to me because you had broken something inside me That day, way back, when I stared out of the window, watching a squirrel as You stood above me and recited a litany of why you didn't want me. And maybe then you'll long for me the way I did those many months, The wind blowing through the hollow in your chest, whistling past the ragged edges. And then you'll understand, it dissolved that warm October as I sat in silence. You'll know it's too late for me, for you, for us. It's just now that you're catching up.
Rumi | Poems that Suck
Rumi was really onto something -
writing poems about God, who for
all we know could be a figment of
our imagination, or a madness of spirit.
The point is: when you love something intangible
and invisible, it has no chance of ever breaking your heart.
Brittle | Poems that Suck
You were frail in body while I
was delicate in mind, yet we curled
around and underneath each other trying
to provide comfort to one another - because
that's
what
empaths
do.
You held me as I fell to pieces
in your hands, mind ridden and soul
overflowing with trauma, pain and anxiety.
You held on until I stopped crumbling - not
healed,
but
stable,
enough.
Then I held you, in your emaciated
brittleness, all edges and angles, as
you allowed yourself the space to dissolve
in my hands, slipping through my fingers - like
water
down
a
drain.
Somehow we held each other up,
held each other together, just barely.
Maybe that's what two people do for
one another; the simple kindness of - offering
safety,
compassion,
and
companionship
as we try to
weather our way
through the shitstorm.
Bukowski | Poems that Suck
Bukowski once said,
love was like the early
morning fog
that burns
away
with
the
sun.
.
What he didn’t say was,
that the fog would
slither into your
bones, leaving
you
chilled
long
after.
Even in Dreams | Poems that Suck
Upon review,
I determined this was shit.
I deleted it so I wouldn't
be a
fucking hypocrite. 😉
Vindictive Lil’ Vixen | Poems that Suck
Had I known it was going to be the last time that we would kiss, I would've given it everything I had and.... Bit your fucking lip off.
Hell Hath No Fury | Poems that Suck
Nothing warms the broken heart quite like the fires of hatred.
Judas | Poems that Suck
I'm tired -- tired of being tired, of feeling like my body is held down by anchors sunk to unfathomable depths, leaving me struggling for air, for energy. I'm tired -- of waking up to feel like going back to sleep, where my body is whole and full of life. I'm tired -- of running interference with exhaustion, and mitigating it with so much coffee that my piss stinks of it. I'm fucking tired -- the spirit is willing, is full of fire and passion, but this Judas of a body is weak.
Untitled | Poems that Suck
"I love you," you called to my retreating back. I wondered if it was exquisite cruelty, or reassurance. Maybe it was a measure of relief for you, Since now, you never have to see me again. Either way, it was a javelin to my (already fragile) heart.
