Tag Archives: noose

“It is what it is.”

Where do I have to bring myself into

Just to find a noose at the end of the tunnel?

It doesn’t matter what my stomach says

For the oxygen I’m breathing is hell

I never wanted this despicable destruction

I wake up everyday just to see that I can’t go on

If this is fair for the erudition I divorced

Would I have to let go and let things run their course?

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Your Trucker’s Hitch Is Sloppy

A free lesson on growing up make the best of their worst
And never compromise what you feel is right
I make a point to be powerful when I speak
Be the one to give them nightmares when they sleep
Never back down from anyone…

~*~

I’m spinning into retrograde motion

Falling apart as the ropes holding me back

Chafe my abrading skin in expelled dominion

I’m in the nadirs of another devilish attack

Feeling dysentery coursing in my bloated tongue

And sooner than later I’ll spit out the plague

In your eyes, and your grasp will slip on the rungs

Of your vicarious deception and mistakes

So rip apart the hatred that buries me

And I’ll be coming back from the dead for you

If there’s any way to bolster out the barrier

I’ll break you first and demolish until I come through.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Laugh Tracks

I tried to kill my pain
But only brought more
So much more, I lay dying
And I’m pouring crimson
Regret and betrayal…

~*~

A gun to my mouth

Means that I’m okay

Don’t worry about me

Go on with your day

A rope around my neck

Means that I’m swell

Just keep on walking

And I do wish you well

Fifty pills in my stomach

Means that I’m doing good

There isn’t a damn concern

So carry on, as you should

A blade to both my wrists

Means I’ve never been better

And soon enough, I promise

I won’t be any more bother.

~*~

I’m dying, praying
Bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved?
Am I too lost?

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

noose

you can’t

be at

the end

of your

rope

if it was

not even

tied in

the first

place.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Counting Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel…

~*~

One, two, three, on my arms and hands I see

Ticking off the scars like the scratched tally marks on the wall

Five, six, seven, all scattered upon my frail body

Crimson blood constantly dripping, on the stained carpet it falls

.

Eight. Oh, remember this, my dearest mother?

The time you accused me and yelled at me for being a bother?

Shot off your hand, it’s all one big flash to me

And when I grew conscious I saw a nasty bruise, a purple mark so shiny

.

Nine. Look, father dear, the great fat shiner I acquired

When you fumed about your stupid job and took it out on yours truly

You were grouchy, you were enraged, you were plainly very tired

But apparently not tired enough to lay your hard clenched fists on me

.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Many more. All self-inflicted.

Sweeter than yellow honey, but rancid like rotten meat

Wounds to numb me down, to prepare me for the horror instead

To help me keep a straight face as my family lashes on repeat

.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. On the brink of my soul.

From my siblings who condescend at me and sneer at my role

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Too many to even count.

Thanks to my “real” friends who used and abandoned me as they flout

.

Dark circles on my face, I know lately I’ve been losing sleep

But who has time to rest when they have wounds so deep?

Escaping from reality, into horrid torturous nightmares

Wake up the next morning and into life you apathetically stare

.

Counting scars, near and far

Like morbid constellations, so pretty and yet oh-so dark

Colorful artworks, laced upon my pale sallow skin

But the cut of the sharp knife goes even deeper within

.

Counting scars, and sometimes they re-open

Painful, so painful, but I have to sew them close again

The needle and thread, they pass through and about

Keeping me intact, in one piece, or just at least for now

.

Counting scars, can anyone see me slowly break?

Can anyone tell from my eyes, can anyone see past the thick clothes?

Wounds on the outer, and on the inner, my soul quivers and quakes

My brain goes dysfunctional, my heart paralyzes, turns stone cold

.

Counting scars, all kinds, all shapes and all sizes, they vary

From different bad episodes, all with very unique stories

But I finally give myself just one last scar to count

When I get rope burns on my neck and asphyxiation makes me black out.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry