Sadness swallows me as I realize you don’t care if I succeed.
I thought you were my friend but I was just a burden.
Something you kept around just in case you needed it.
Sadness swallows me as I realize you don’t care if I succeed.
I thought you were my friend but I was just a burden.
Something you kept around just in case you needed it.
I found a piece of you today, a tiny wisp of nothing that made me cry.
Funny how our grief never leaves us.
It lurks just below the surface, waiting to wrap its cold fingers around our throat.
Now I sit here strangled and rendered immobile by a tiny wisp of nothing.
Just when I convince myself to conform and play nice I find a blazing sign from destiny not to.
Is this a poem, a story, a life journey or the inner workings of my mind?
I’m unmotivated, my muse abandoned me.
I try,
I work against the odds.
I try for you,
I work against the unfamiliar.
I try for all of us,
I work against your passive aggressive comments.
Why do you work so hard to belittle me and my efforts when I’m doing it all for us?
Does my scrap of success scare you that bad?
I only did it to help us.
Tired of falling on your grenades.
I can’t be me with you.
Side note: someone really needs to send me a link to the criteria of six word stories. I might be murdering them unconsciously.
Isolation. Self-inflicted?
Loneliness. Deserved?
Despair. Hopeless?
I got a poem written yesterday as well but I’m starting to see a pattern of a disturbing nature.
Here’s Saturdays poem.
I came to you
I was there
I was there
I was overwhelmed
I tried to be there
I tried to be there
I waited
I wanted you here
I wanted you here
I gave up
I knew you wouldn’t come
I knew you wouldn’t come
Since I’m in full editing mode when I’m working I feel like my writing muscles may shrivel up from not being used. I have challenge myself to try to write a daily poem. So, far I wrote one yesterday but I am fearful of sharing it here. I don’t mind sharing bits of my works in progress but something about sharing poetry seems more intimate. Feel free to laugh at me. I may come to a place where I will feel comfortable to share it, I guess we’ll see.
What do you do to keep your writing muscle flexed?
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