ObliqueNightShade

I cling to the words on the page, As if they're something of value, "The pen is mightier than the sword" they say, Sure. Tell me again- I'll pretend to believe you. I make-believe that my writings have meaning, Not just the ramblings of someone half-gone mad. If I use punctuation, and clever wording, perhaps, It will make up for my lack of pizzazz. Yet the words still tumble, Though devoid of merit, I'd be surprised if anyone is even listening. I try to be profound, But come out quite shallow, At least that's what I think that I'm missing. "The rhyming is cliche!", "The wording isn't stable!" My vocal, inner critic strikes aga

Screaming. Screaming. Why can't my brain stop Seething, Seething? I'm over it, My heart is breaking, Shattered, Though I'm not too sure why This pain, though invisible, is far too inevitable And the depth of this misery is unknown Though I wish I could stop, I do not know what to think My world is washing with the trash down the sink, Torment, I say, my heart, it strains to bear it, Never can I quite say what I mean, Fighting at the words, That tighten around my throat, Constricting my breathing, Smothering smoke. My poetry is ashes, It cannot stand on its own, Ashes from ashes, It will return again. My mind has