Torn Page

Am I just words defined by someone else?

Holding on to the sayings in old books, old ideas of right and wrong--

am I trying to be a cookie cutter version of an impossible me?

The skin I’m in doesn’t fit inside the jeans stored in my closet

And the thoughts I think don’t fit a book I was told to believe in.

My love is masking my feeling of hate.

These burning teardrops sting, forming scars only visible under my skin;

the old cliché that said with time they will heal--

lies.

Time just lets the pain sink deeper in"a thin layer of skin hiding what is truly within--

no one knows they are there, I won’t let anyone in.

I want to be the person I’ve tried to be;

that I thought they needed me to be;

that I thought they expected me to be;

that I thought I had to be.

But really--is that me?

The girl I once starved, I’ve overindulged--

I’ve blamed, I’ve criticized, I’ve put down,

I. Have. Broken.

Piece by piece, layer by layer, day and night

I try to sleep, but I am hunted by the things I want, I need.  I dream

all the things I am but won’t let myself be.

The tears I shed--I don’t really cry.

I try to laugh--who I am is easy to hide.

Under blankets, under desks, behind doors,

with the palm of my hand I hide the lips he once adored.

The lips I won’t let speak--

won’t let them say the things, the things that I am

but am not meant to mean.

 

Author's Note

I'm not a poet...

Reviews

[MoriartyMesa]

Not a poet, I gotta say I dont agree, poetry is thinking and form of emotion to become a sentence. Now that is just me, but I think this is a nice expression of emotion.


If you think about it a ballet dancer is no different than a kid on the street dancing.