A.N: Warning I do mention overdosing and car accidents, in case anyone is triggered by those two things.
Was it that strange thing they called parents?
I know no parents, just belts and fists and nails on skin.
A shape pushing into my room to silence my screaming.
A shadow looming over my shoulders as I dump carrots into a pot.
I had no parents, I had strings on my arms,
Manned by two figures far above me.
If they didn't make me, who did.
Was it my sisters?
A calm and collected sweetheart,
And the rowdy and open goofball.
Two sides of a coin that never landed.
Maybe they made me.
Maybe they helped format me.
But what now?
My older sister helps form me only to overdose in a hotel room?
My sister helps make me who I am only to break her neck over a steering wheel?
But they were supposed to guide me,
To help me,
To form me,
To create me.
What now?
What does someone do when they lose what made them,
Before they finished.
YOU ARE READING
Blissful Incompetence
PoetryThis will be my poem dump. All my crappy poems and shitty thoughts all compressed into one place. Aren't you just so lucky to read them? For real though, most of this will be personal-esque poems and writings and most will probably be going over so...
