Post by Defty on Jun 14, 2024 20:30:25 GMT -5
FOUR YEARS
Four years
And no tears
But mine.
I’m surprised
At how
Unsurprising
The situation’s
Become.
Minutes wasted
On
Strangers,
I prayed
Reciprocated
My love—
You vanished
From
The guillotine
You promised
To be in
Beside me.
Why?
Now the blade
Is
Falling from
Above.
They
Spent their
Time
Making
Something
Of their
Lives.
Meanwhile,
The only
Property
I own
Is the puddle
I lie in.
It’s a saddening
Truth,
Because I keep
Slipping in it.
So I stifle my crying
And own nothing
Instead.
Two months in
And I’ve
Fallen
Again.
When will I
Finally
Fall on my head?
***
WORRY STONES
When I was
Eight
Years
Old,
I used to carry
Worry stones
To cope.
They’d come in bulk
And bulge
Out my
Shorts.
My mom would
Scribble
Little notes
On their surfaces—
Single-worded
Qualities
That promised
Some purpose.
I saw much
In
“Courage,”
The worth
In
“Endurance.”
And
When I got
Nervous,
I’d slip
My hands
Into
My pockets,
Which were
Chock full
Of rocks,
And rub
Until
That stopped it.
I rubbed
Until
The words
Faded off
The
Rock face.
Hurtful
Emotions,
Purged
From my
System.
A rush
Of relief
With each
Basic
Thumb
Motion,
Committed
To memory.
But something’s since
Happened to me.
The crystals
Are gone—
The slots
In my pants
Collect
Negative thoughts
With nothing
To fill them.
When I lost
Those stones,
I lost the
Qualities
Written.
And I just really want
To feel strong
Again.
***
GHOST KID
When I hold
The door open,
I’m hoping
For something
Said.
But they
Think the wind
Might’ve caused it.
No one says, “Thanks.”
Is that a
Hard thing
To say?
I believe in God
Because he tends
To relate.
Only difference is,
I can’t
Compensate
For the claims
I make.
“I swear
I’m better
At the next
Sport
Or game.”
They say they’ve
Put that on a
Soundboard,
Arrayed
With
My most
Common
Phrases—
Right beside
“I’m so sorry,”
And
“I can take it.”
They replay it
To capitalize
On the embarrassment
I’m facing—
And I face it
With the palest
Shade.
It’s earned me
The name
“Ghost Kid.”
I thought
To be ghosted
Meant
Your texts were
Left on
Read,
But I’m even
Ghosted
In normal
Conversation.
I don’t slip
Through walls,
I just
Trip and
Give them
Kisses.
I’m finished
With this
Invisible
Existence;
Everyone’s
Opinions
Expressed
When they “boo”
Me.
That’s truly
Rude
To steal
Something
I say.
I scare no one
Until I
Threaten
My own
Grave,
Then
The game
Of charades
Stops
Because
No one’s
Willing to
Echo
The same
Sentiment.
How promising,
The thought
Of
Nothingness.
I’m slated
For it,
But the
Date’s
Still up
For question.
In the meantime,
I’m trying to
Indulge my stay.
Enjoy living.
Feel more
Spirited.
But that’s difficult
When I feel
Like I’m already dead.
i’d take your hand
if mine
didn’t
pass through it.
***
REVERT
I’ve made some changes to the well-known face from my flesh and bone phase, when I was seen, and heard, and felt. Hazel eyes and paisley tie, tongue tied on no known occasion. I’d walk through rain to reclaim an umbrella, just so I could save you from it.
And though it’s long stopped raining, I’m still shaking from leaving you beneath that parapet, waiting. Who’s keeping you dry while I’m gone, mom? Please tell me someone is. I know it’s taken me a while to reply to your messages.
The truth is, I’m hesitant because I’m embarrassed. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’ve been experiencing a progressive regression. Just two months in, and they’ve cemented my hatred of this place. My environment onsets my devolution within; disrespected by metaphoric relatives, completely unsuspected. I’d expect it from oppressors, but it’s harder when it’s from brethren. I wanted to spend forever here, but I’m unsure that that’s still happening.
Lost in my internal universe, I revert into an introvert, convert into a questioner, of doctrines taught and thoughts dispersed that held my full support.
I murder my own morals in the pursuit of something more.
It’s been four killings, and still no shillings,
So again, the rope of loosened values descends me t’wards the pit.
Addicted to isolation,
I’m cordial, but less genuine.
No longer nod “Hello,”
Let the door swing shut instead.
I arrived as a contrast, but lost that
when I contracted their animalism.
Now I’ve become one of them.
(My bloodstream, diluted;
I’m nineteen, deluded.)
I’ve forgotten how to speak;
Why would He put me through this?
This is not a “natural process,”
But the opposite of such.
On the verge of nausea, I diverge from the dogma,
Divulge where I come from, to people I once shunned.
Belief in a ransom, or freedom from handcuffs,
But which one’s the falsehood; which one’s the wrong one?
Regardless, I miss you.
With much love,
Your lost son.
Four years
And no tears
But mine.
I’m surprised
At how
Unsurprising
The situation’s
Become.
Minutes wasted
On
Strangers,
I prayed
Reciprocated
My love—
You vanished
From
The guillotine
You promised
To be in
Beside me.
Why?
Now the blade
Is
Falling from
Above.
They
Spent their
Time
Making
Something
Of their
Lives.
Meanwhile,
The only
Property
I own
Is the puddle
I lie in.
It’s a saddening
Truth,
Because I keep
Slipping in it.
So I stifle my crying
And own nothing
Instead.
Two months in
And I’ve
Fallen
Again.
When will I
Finally
Fall on my head?
***
WORRY STONES
When I was
Eight
Years
Old,
I used to carry
Worry stones
To cope.
They’d come in bulk
And bulge
Out my
Shorts.
My mom would
Scribble
Little notes
On their surfaces—
Single-worded
Qualities
That promised
Some purpose.
I saw much
In
“Courage,”
The worth
In
“Endurance.”
And
When I got
Nervous,
I’d slip
My hands
Into
My pockets,
Which were
Chock full
Of rocks,
And rub
Until
That stopped it.
I rubbed
Until
The words
Faded off
The
Rock face.
Hurtful
Emotions,
Purged
From my
System.
A rush
Of relief
With each
Basic
Thumb
Motion,
Committed
To memory.
But something’s since
Happened to me.
The crystals
Are gone—
The slots
In my pants
Collect
Negative thoughts
With nothing
To fill them.
When I lost
Those stones,
I lost the
Qualities
Written.
And I just really want
To feel strong
Again.
***
GHOST KID
When I hold
The door open,
I’m hoping
For something
Said.
But they
Think the wind
Might’ve caused it.
No one says, “Thanks.”
Is that a
Hard thing
To say?
I believe in God
Because he tends
To relate.
Only difference is,
I can’t
Compensate
For the claims
I make.
“I swear
I’m better
At the next
Sport
Or game.”
They say they’ve
Put that on a
Soundboard,
Arrayed
With
My most
Common
Phrases—
Right beside
“I’m so sorry,”
And
“I can take it.”
They replay it
To capitalize
On the embarrassment
I’m facing—
And I face it
With the palest
Shade.
It’s earned me
The name
“Ghost Kid.”
I thought
To be ghosted
Meant
Your texts were
Left on
Read,
But I’m even
Ghosted
In normal
Conversation.
I don’t slip
Through walls,
I just
Trip and
Give them
Kisses.
I’m finished
With this
Invisible
Existence;
Everyone’s
Opinions
Expressed
When they “boo”
Me.
That’s truly
Rude
To steal
Something
I say.
I scare no one
Until I
Threaten
My own
Grave,
Then
The game
Of charades
Stops
Because
No one’s
Willing to
Echo
The same
Sentiment.
How promising,
The thought
Of
Nothingness.
I’m slated
For it,
But the
Date’s
Still up
For question.
In the meantime,
I’m trying to
Indulge my stay.
Enjoy living.
Feel more
Spirited.
But that’s difficult
When I feel
Like I’m already dead.
i’d take your hand
if mine
didn’t
pass through it.
***
REVERT
I’ve made some changes to the well-known face from my flesh and bone phase, when I was seen, and heard, and felt. Hazel eyes and paisley tie, tongue tied on no known occasion. I’d walk through rain to reclaim an umbrella, just so I could save you from it.
And though it’s long stopped raining, I’m still shaking from leaving you beneath that parapet, waiting. Who’s keeping you dry while I’m gone, mom? Please tell me someone is. I know it’s taken me a while to reply to your messages.
The truth is, I’m hesitant because I’m embarrassed. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’ve been experiencing a progressive regression. Just two months in, and they’ve cemented my hatred of this place. My environment onsets my devolution within; disrespected by metaphoric relatives, completely unsuspected. I’d expect it from oppressors, but it’s harder when it’s from brethren. I wanted to spend forever here, but I’m unsure that that’s still happening.
Lost in my internal universe, I revert into an introvert, convert into a questioner, of doctrines taught and thoughts dispersed that held my full support.
I murder my own morals in the pursuit of something more.
It’s been four killings, and still no shillings,
So again, the rope of loosened values descends me t’wards the pit.
Addicted to isolation,
I’m cordial, but less genuine.
No longer nod “Hello,”
Let the door swing shut instead.
I arrived as a contrast, but lost that
when I contracted their animalism.
Now I’ve become one of them.
(My bloodstream, diluted;
I’m nineteen, deluded.)
I’ve forgotten how to speak;
Why would He put me through this?
This is not a “natural process,”
But the opposite of such.
On the verge of nausea, I diverge from the dogma,
Divulge where I come from, to people I once shunned.
Belief in a ransom, or freedom from handcuffs,
But which one’s the falsehood; which one’s the wrong one?
Regardless, I miss you.
With much love,
Your lost son.
