I tried to imagine it
The girl I’d want to be
The one under the yellow umbrella in a monotone sea
And then, only then, would I be at peace
But it wasn’t me
Her smile wasn’t me
Her laugh wasn’t me
Humor wasn’t me
Hair wasn’t me
Face wasn’t me
Body wasn’t me
Maybe it was my mind screaming at me
Maybe it was my heart feeding the inner beast
The one that tells me there’s something wrong with everything I see
With my smile
With my laugh
With my humor
With my hair
With my face
With my body
Everything that makes me, me
I hate
Yes I hate me
I hate my smile
My laugh
My humor
My hair
My face
My body
I hate it all
So I imagined her
And I forced myself to become an impossible thing
Something that wasn’t me
List upon lists of things I didn’t realize all made up me
Written down in red ink as a symbol of changes that needed to be
And I’d hate myself even more when I couldn’t achieve
Lists turned into novels and novels into scrolls that wrapped my mind in a bunch of dos and don’ts
But it wrapped so tightly around my throat like a rope
A rope that tightened with every single word I wrote
And now I choke
I choke on my heart and brain since now they believe I’m insane
Like how can you not change these simple things
Make it all your reality
So it feeds the monster deep inside
Churns the rope now I’m climbing high
I’m high above the ceiling that’s already fell
High above the world
High above the clouds
High above reality
I hear all the sounds
Like the slight tick
The tick of the bomb that will soon send me down
No yellow umbrella will be worn like a crown to ease the decent as I spiral down
Yes, it’s happened and I’m spiraling now
Yellow turns into blue, green, and red as the thoughts I have begin to mesh
My mind can’t keep up with my tongue and my heart’s all but given up
Because my reality is this,
I could never be a yellow umbrella when I realate too much to the monotone sea
And this “darkness” seems all too ment to be…
Am I simply hiding from who I was ment to be?
About the Creator
VT
Where words fail my poetry speaks…
and I’m really not good at speaking.
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The Spring
The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham4 days ago in Fiction
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