I am sick of beauty.
I am sick of breezy sunlit mornings where the sky is a flat wash of blue.
I hate the warmth of my hands from the coffee I have just made, or the colors from the trees around me
I am sick of the curly brown hair of the person I love dearly,
and I hate the way her lips form an easy smile.
I am sick of books and obscure films,
and the thought of scented candles on a rainy day makes my stomach churn.
I hate my paintings,
I'd like to burn every one of them.
I hate my poems,
I'd like to tear them into pieces.
I hate the moon, the stars,
the whole goddamn sky.
I'd like to punch, scratch, kick, harm anything that comes close to me,
though I have no reason to.
I have a habit of destroying the things I love most,
and there isn't anything anyone can do to stop me.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
