My Fault Poem by Heather Noble
My Fault
A scratch.
A pinch.
A scrape.
A cut.
A turned up feeling,
In my gut.
The pain.
The horror.
The sadness.
The sickness.
Inside all this,
Scumness.
Useless.
Unbearable.
Naughty.
Mean.
All the things I feel,
Are obscene.
Dangerous.
Stupid.
Manipulative.
Psychotic.
Any mental illness there is,
I'm quite sure I got it.
Bleeding.
Crying.
Blaming.
Upset.
Over all the things,
I sure can't forget.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
I open my eyes,
'Is it over yet? '
You are a beautiful person and nothing is your fault. Keep writing. Liz.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 12:30:47 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Liz must be 'a beautiful person' herself, and of course, you too; because she undermines you 'fault' as a person. But I have to say the same thing in a different way: personal faults have nothing or little to do with the writing of poems. What matters most is the concern of art which requirs a sort of poetic skill from every aspiring poet. Yet, as a person, everyone has to lessen his/her faults, and as an artist, to lessen his/her faults in using a particular mode of art. I think it's clear. Anyway, thanks for your poem.