Title: A Collection Of Scars
by Craig from Cornwall | in writing, poetry, dark
I carry my sadness around me
in a brown paper bag,
it's covered so you can't see it
but I know it's there,
at any sign of intrusion
I pull it out like a party trick
that screams: GET AWAY FROM ME!
On Fridays the bag is heavy
a rucksack of guilt/regret/envy
packed right up to the bottle neck,
be careful I don't spill over
getting you drenched in my ninety nine problems
and my self-written/self-help booklet
on how to die and have no-one notice,
I'm on stage two:
'Become a Shadow of your Former Self',
I've broken bones
torn muscles
now all that's left are the wet cogs
hiding in the caverns behind my tortoise shell ribcage,
if I can get their noise to cease
expect a call
I'll be that man you always wanted,
dead
silent.
By Monday the bag is ripped
empty, a shed skin, a fresh scar on the palm of my right hand
next to the freckle you said that you would never leave,
I carry my sadness in a bottle
hidden inside a brown bag,
when my lips turn Sahara dry
you'll notice I take a swig.
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