deepundergroundpoetry.com
Out of My Mind
I’m going out of my mind.
There’s a little me trying to claw
away from my own thoughts and feelings.
There’s a little me pounding on the walls,
her blonde hair in knots, flying around her
as fists meet paint, and tears meet sheets,
trying so hard to break from this constant,
never-ending feeling of nothingness.
You see, she’s nothing more than a figment
of my imagination: a symbol of my own insecurities.
But, nonetheless, salt sprays from her eyes
as though the ocean were in her head, trying
to break the walls, too, the entire time. Her
fists give me a headache. And when her arms
grow tired, she resorts to screaming, raising
the voice that her larger self seems to lack.
You see, the larger version of she has so much to say,
so much she’d love to say, but she can't. She’s stuck
between making impulsive decisions and doing
nothing at all. There is no in between for her;
she is simply the girl stuck running from one extreme to the other.
But, then there’s the running: the constant,
never-ending running. She’s always running,
trying to get away, trying to leave these futile,
no-good things behind, to the point where
she leaves herself, her very being, behind.
But still, somehow, she tries to convince herself
that she’s not running away. She tries to convince
herself that she’s running to something, running
towards the idea of something better than this,
towards opportunity, towards happiness.
She runs towards the things that terrify her,
taking chances. But one day, probably soon,
she’s going to run right off the edge, take a dive
right off the deep end, and though fully immersed,
still keep running, never looking back, afraid to see
the side of her that's vulnerable.
And as she becomes consumed by the darkness,
sinking further and further from the surface, her
running will become gasping, grasping for the
very air she’s tried to avoid all this time.
As she sinks, she will recall all the years she spent running.
Because, even though she thought she hit rock bottom before,
there was apparently still room to fall, to sink, and to
drown in her own pool of insecurities.
So, sure she’s running; she’ll always be running,
but maybe one day, she’ll find what she’s looking
for, or maybe at least, just once, be able to take a
breath or two before setting off again.
There’s a little me trying to claw
away from my own thoughts and feelings.
There’s a little me pounding on the walls,
her blonde hair in knots, flying around her
as fists meet paint, and tears meet sheets,
trying so hard to break from this constant,
never-ending feeling of nothingness.
You see, she’s nothing more than a figment
of my imagination: a symbol of my own insecurities.
But, nonetheless, salt sprays from her eyes
as though the ocean were in her head, trying
to break the walls, too, the entire time. Her
fists give me a headache. And when her arms
grow tired, she resorts to screaming, raising
the voice that her larger self seems to lack.
You see, the larger version of she has so much to say,
so much she’d love to say, but she can't. She’s stuck
between making impulsive decisions and doing
nothing at all. There is no in between for her;
she is simply the girl stuck running from one extreme to the other.
But, then there’s the running: the constant,
never-ending running. She’s always running,
trying to get away, trying to leave these futile,
no-good things behind, to the point where
she leaves herself, her very being, behind.
But still, somehow, she tries to convince herself
that she’s not running away. She tries to convince
herself that she’s running to something, running
towards the idea of something better than this,
towards opportunity, towards happiness.
She runs towards the things that terrify her,
taking chances. But one day, probably soon,
she’s going to run right off the edge, take a dive
right off the deep end, and though fully immersed,
still keep running, never looking back, afraid to see
the side of her that's vulnerable.
And as she becomes consumed by the darkness,
sinking further and further from the surface, her
running will become gasping, grasping for the
very air she’s tried to avoid all this time.
As she sinks, she will recall all the years she spent running.
Because, even though she thought she hit rock bottom before,
there was apparently still room to fall, to sink, and to
drown in her own pool of insecurities.
So, sure she’s running; she’ll always be running,
but maybe one day, she’ll find what she’s looking
for, or maybe at least, just once, be able to take a
breath or two before setting off again.
Published 1st Aug 2015
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Anonymous
1st Aug 2015 9:53pm
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