Tears drop
on my windshield
as I fall
back to sleep,
let the car creep.
Things move forward,
always bustling,
never stopping,
the crime ticking away outside,
but there is crime inside
my
heart.
For the people who
stab and shoot
are externalized
extensions
brought to life
from the poorest recesses
of my
heart.
As I look on with my eyes,
I feel weak, tired, and
exhausted. She comes with optimism,
a sense of trying to better
her world.
I love this, but
fall short
of ever
trying to be
what this girl
truly needs.
I guess I could
be my own superhero,
with my own weapons.
But the ideal doesn't fly away
with his resentment.
No, he was great
for a few days.
Less than a phantom-fling.
Did I show her a part of me that
She didn't need to see?
Was it hopeless
from the start?
I'd never
come to understand
just how this boat
beneath us
kept rocking forward,
like the world wasn't a fragile, confused stage.
How jumping off the ledge
quelled my rage,
because,
at least,
in this day and age,
those who hurt themselves
are romanticized,
lost in romantic eyes.
YOU ARE READING
the Dawning of Rage (poetry)
PoetryThis is a book of enraged poems. Don't say I didn't warn you! The purpose of this book, essentially, serves as a therapeutic outlet. This is NOT some manifesto, but a place of expression. Feelings of such loathing and hate, I don't believe, should b...
