Is it ever going to be enough?

Is it ever going to be enough?

Bottled improvisations 

of sand-script,

my capacity for pain

is endless.

It's the seconds 

I hate most;

next the minutes,

next the hours

next the days.

How I hate the days.

I dream of devils

in my sleep,

when I sleep,

if I sleep.

A dragonfly whispers

about wine

in my ear,

tells me

"not to worry"

tells me

"it's a matter of time."

And I buckle,

I'd rather break bones 

than feel.

Than feel.

I'd rather

catch my death,

than think of her

forever.

Reviews

[Ethan]

Hmm I like everything here, just cut the second "Than feel". While you repeat words earlier in the poem, it's to express a point. The extra feel is just redundant. Nice job though :)

[ANTO]

It's the seconds
I hate most;
next the minutes,
next the hours
next the days.

How I hate the days.

A truly palpable yearning for an end to the suffering in this writing and yet the release while it would be swift would mean no more thinking of her - and that wouldnt do, I feel. So the agony continues.

Strong and visceral writing Abigale