A Broken Record.
A coffin of masks surrounding my heart
work, writing, music and art.
writing my emotions seems to be an outlet
yet my feelings are still buried.
My masks sit upon a shelf like a menagerie of broken and used toys,
a collection so pitiful i have had no choice but to hide them
too used and broken to be played with but a fear of the loss of innocence binds them to my walls.
I walk the halls like a tunnel
striding mechanically and forcing a smile
so focused on making my mile i walk into a double edged sword
it pierces my heart and my collection is revealed
hate, anger, jealousy, sadness, indecisiveness, all my fears
the sword withdraws and leaves a gaping hole who beckons to me
“You should have known better than to just be”.
I gather my strewn items and tuck them back neatly back into the hole from which they came.
and continue striding as if they had never spewed out in the first place.
Theres no satisfaction, love, trust, or happiness to be had,
perhaps because I have a deep-seated desire to just be sad?
So i radiate my darkness and subtract my light by adding darkness and gloom
And that is why my toys are kept in a tomb.
A coffin of masks surrounding my heart
work, writing, music and…
I know it is not very good but honestly this is just kind of how i feel, i dont know if anyone can relate to or even really understand this but i just thought id share it
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/55h6vu/wall_street/?st=ITSCCNPP&sh=e260c50b
Posted Oct 2, 2016, 6:58 AM UTC · edited