deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pretty Words
I want pretty words and truth, something hardly uttered.
But my mind is rotten, filled, despite being once uncluttered.
I like to think I define myself by every thought,
But then I'll have to look at myself and I'd really rather not.
I am blind to only how I feel, I refuse to let myself heal.
I pick at scabs and rip stitches just to know it is real.
Hanging head in hands, I know the dictionary definition,
Of every feeling I do not know. I need an intermission.
I feel the need to suck in my ribs and pretend I'm beautiful.
To hold my head high with confidence. To become irrefutable.
But I've spent my whole life regretting my own existence,
And now all that I am is lacking in precious consistence.
There's little of me left, all I am is meant to appease.
Like words I've ruined by using only to please.
These words bring only misery.
I'm afraid to lose my dignity, to bow out with only this imagery.
I keep my distance, always asking for permission.
To be the best child, always meek and mild, was always a competition.
And it looks like I've won, there's no one left to see.
My mother is no longer a mother to someone like me.
But my mind is rotten, filled, despite being once uncluttered.
I like to think I define myself by every thought,
But then I'll have to look at myself and I'd really rather not.
I am blind to only how I feel, I refuse to let myself heal.
I pick at scabs and rip stitches just to know it is real.
Hanging head in hands, I know the dictionary definition,
Of every feeling I do not know. I need an intermission.
I feel the need to suck in my ribs and pretend I'm beautiful.
To hold my head high with confidence. To become irrefutable.
But I've spent my whole life regretting my own existence,
And now all that I am is lacking in precious consistence.
There's little of me left, all I am is meant to appease.
Like words I've ruined by using only to please.
These words bring only misery.
I'm afraid to lose my dignity, to bow out with only this imagery.
I keep my distance, always asking for permission.
To be the best child, always meek and mild, was always a competition.
And it looks like I've won, there's no one left to see.
My mother is no longer a mother to someone like me.
Published 30th Nov 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 3
reading list entries 1
comments 6
reads 635
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
30th Nov 2016 10:27pm
Pretty words perhaps but you need to think of less as being more - you sometimes appear to squeeze too much into some lines so it appears rushed and too few in others so it seems too slight - try to find a happy medium perhaps.
1st Dec 2016 12:02pm
fine work. most beauty is pretended;
the most attractive of poetry is not so pretty...
the most attractive of poetry is not so pretty...
1st Dec 2016 4:31pm
Really enjoyed reading this...could easily follow the rhythm of this piece
26th Dec 2016 11:34am
Such a deep expressive write. very well written, Just be yourself I say, although my own thoughts and cluttered mind say different. well done. Moog.
27th Dec 2016 00:32am
I feel the emotions weaved throughout your words. I know this very well.
My heart aches for you.
Ink praise
FS
My heart aches for you.
Ink praise
FS
10th Jan 2017 1:13pm
That last line left me speechless...
While reading your poem I was constantly thinking "it's like reading myself"
Then... in the end... it all made sense...
Painfull write, yet outstanding!
While reading your poem I was constantly thinking "it's like reading myself"
Then... in the end... it all made sense...
Painfull write, yet outstanding!
