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Ventilation Station

I get the crust and the gristle of a thistle, once a missile shooting out into the sky. And I cry, "wonder why!" Never sure what I feel for the meal of a deal. And then words, more like air, slip the breeze in my hair. Butterflies, in the skies, killing what kept my alive. Oh, too bad. Well, how sad. If the songs last lines didn't matter, it'd harm. It'd make the soul so very mad. Here, I fall. There I stand, like a robot dancing to the tunes. It's demand. Hear, I laugh! Hear, I cry! I hear the screams and feel the burn, so why?! Why unsure- of what's telling me my life is so impure?! Threatened heart, from the strings that unwrap it, tearing it apart. Feel the clench of a bundle, of what you, yourself, have drench and so benched. And you threw to me the horror show! I never so have thought, would reckon me to be, I, to be, it's master and it's longing family! Here, I cry. Hear, "I" cry! For I exist in heart, but never, not in mind. There I stand once again, as a memory of all that I pretend. If I tried, to be real, the pieces fall apart inside. So I hide, then I quiver and shake, as 'me' is inside. I can touchdown in the shelter, covered in the unbelieving; underachieving, to be who I know I am to be. Or at least what you can see. I crush the old me, and start anew, as though I never grew. I, immortal to myself, have stomped on the true. And I become something greater than the simple little shrew. Now, do not lie! For I see with one eye, the look through me. What you see is a host, not the ghost, that lives on. "Awh, look at me. I'm so strong!" Cue a laugh along. Child there. Where? Oops, forgot to care. Now I stare, towards the end that's never ending, like this script. Never ending; twist, and bending. Don't kid me, I'm no kid. I'm the body of a youth, but I am dead. I've destroyed myself, if others didn't do a perfect job. Hold up, stop! I'm letting go of a bubble that will pop. It will burst, destroying me, if it doesn't kill me first. Here, I stand. Hear, I cry! There I go. Enjoyed the ride?
Blackbird
Written by Blackbird (Blackbird_)
Published
Author's Note
I'd love genuine critic. It's a venting poem I wrote 7 years ago, when I was about 16. 7 years ago I posted it to allpoetry/storywrite and I posted it later to hellopoetry.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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