The devil speaks
With the voice
Of those
I love
Whispering
Half truths
Whispering
Lies
I cannot
Always
Tell
Them apart
So
I hurt
The very people
I wanted to save
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
Sometimes,
I feel like a seed.
A potential inert,
A possibility to succeed.
So just put me in the dirt
And give me what I need.
How else can I avert?
How else can I exceed?
Other times,
I feel hurt.
Just a societal weed.
A potential victim on alert,
Nurtured only when I bleed.
I don’t mean to be curt,
How else can I plead?
How else can I divert?
How else can I be freed?
I am the hurt seed, the weed that’s only freed by the blood that it bleeds. Put into the dirt just wishing to exceed. Inert without encouragement, unable to succeed. Thus, I plead; Be alert to my need. Don’t divert or think me curt, I just want to succeed.
So just burry me
And perhaps this seed
Will grow
Into a weed.
Watch this poem on YouTube
This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
I over thought it and hurt my own feelings.
Ruminated and created some tearlings.
Them’s are tears that represent fears.
Them’s are shame and toxic self-blame.
I internalised it and took it out on you.
Rebelling and yelling that something’s ado.
‘Twas an attack that needs an unpack.
‘Twas an interrogation like presentation.
I blocked the world off and hurt myself.
Bashed and slashed at my body wealth.
That’s a knife leading to strife.
That’s a pile of pills causing ills.
I broke down and lost it all.
Cried and tried to take the last fall.
I was insane and overflowing with pain.
I was at rock bottom feeling forgotten.
I survived and came back to you wearily.
Apologising and explaining myself tearily.
The same story just more gory.
The trauma trick that I always stick.
I recovered and returned to my normal.
Flirting and fucking and acting all formal.
You said it’s okay, it was just a bad day.
You let me back in, despite all my sin.
This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
