Compost Heap

The skin is only so deep,
All the ugliness above and below,
The scars that I can't hide,
And the jaded tinge of rust on my heart,
The memory is dirty,
Tainting me yet again,
Why can't I get out?
I fail to see why I am so weak,
The four white walls are my prison,
As much in my mind,
As they are tangible,
Where is the tenderness?
Words of hatred cover me in filth,
I am a reflection,
Touch the broken glass,
Bitter is the rind,
And oh so terrible is the clock,
A diary of horror stories,
But to me children's nursery rhymes,
The hymn is now a curse,
And the confusion sets in,
Everything is unreal,
Monster, monster, monster

Reviews

[Light]

'''monster, monster, monster." a compost heap of oneself. the unholy memories and scars hidden beneath the oh so shallow skin; trapped in a prison of white walls! the reflection of the filth as you personify broken glass. truly marvelous! i really liked this one! bellisima!!!

[bluessadmood]

Ohh again ,i so loved this..
yes its cos we really feel a lot..we see everything so ugly
too many scars what a freak.i just cant hide the shame
lots of memories hang on to me,feel so weak
no tenderness ,all filth,but its because no one sees
They laughed at me with their stories
at bed time ,now i see all the curse
all confusion ,nothing real
lovely write..

[.]

. wow ... if you're capable of such an amazing poetic expression after brutal introspection ... you have little to worry about ... give yourself some time ... and keep writing such brilliant poems too ...