I push the cacophony
to the shadows of my mind.
Where self-doubt whispers;
Where my fears and pains entwine.
I push the weight of other’s two cents
A drug, disguised as advice,
A relic’s persist,
Making me my biggest resist
I swallow the lump brewing
In my throat,
A familiar friend
That overstayed the welcome
Slowly unraveling my half eroded moat.
I steady the tremble
in my leg,
not the serene shiver I’ve known,
but a grim spasm,
known to the unknown.
I push the longing
For my innocent tune,
Against the echoes of rasp;
Another piece of me
I lost on my labyrinth
To be in unison
With those unmoved
By my last breath.
I push the knot
In my stomach further
Yet it stays.
A parasite ingest
Like a storm
In my chest.
I pour the insecurities in my glass
And chug,
Hoping no one sees
Me drown.
For I know
Its poison
But I drink anyways.
An infinity better
Than being neglected.
My chained heart reassures
Because everybody
Admire the mosaic,
Not the shattered glass.
They’re the same inside,
Sharp, broken, furious
Yet one is painted.
Hidden is its
Pain, and ugliness.
For it’s the same
Light that passes through,
Yet one is praised,
And the other
Swept.
And so I bite down
The mistrust into
A painful grin,
Hoping they wont
Seep through.
It feels like
Honey,
Sticky, and sweet at first,
But only later–
…My jaw stiffens,
Imprisoned in this
Bittersweet agony.
I scurry, to knit
The undone strings
Of my insecurities
Before the puppeteers
Can catch hold.
The puppeteer
That already
Dictates so much
Of my life,
Pulling,
And pushing,
And dropping,
As they need.
All in the name
Of someone’s creed
I bury the
Crushing covet of glee,
A tiny flame dancing
In the depths of me,
Because my smile means nothing,
Unless in their eyes—
Im loved, needed, wanted.
Even it its only a fleeting role.
And so I push,
And bury,
and bite,
and push again,
until I am tired
of the puppeteer’s
strings cutting my articulation.
As I take the blade,
And snip the loose yarn,
One by one,
Ripping others perception
Off of my skin
Believes which don’t belong to me,
Wearing my own
Sleeve of sentiments thin.
Because I would rather play
The protagonist
I so desperately hate ,
Than play myself—
A role you abominate.
So I cut,
And snip,
And rip,
Failing to realize,
That this pit of despair
Is more
Than just strings.
I walked in,
Not knowing
It would consume me.
Not the pit I fell into,
The pit I have become.
The feeling isn’t
In my head
As they say,
Its infused
In my skin,
A part of my blood,
A chamber in my heart.
And so I bite my tongue,
As tears threaten to fall,
And start the engine,
To hide the ringing;
“you’re going home”
My ears shriek,
While I hope with
What truth is left
In my heart,
I find a destination
for this endless journey.
