Words - Poem by Jessica Wales
Why can no one see the hatred, the burning passion inside of me,
Sending me to break when they speak, and to fake my wholeness,
The pain ruptures inside of me, and my entire body goes numb,
Click, click, click, goes the rubber band,
Hit, hit, hitting, against my arm, leaving purplish marks,
Only to be concealed later tonight in fear of being found.
How can nobody see the love, the burning passion inside of me,
Making my heart break in joy when they speak, and faking how proud I am,
The love ruptures inside of me, and my entire body goes numb,
Bump bump bump goes my heart,
Beat beat beating in my chest,
Only to be concealed later tonight in fear of being found,
How can they not see the tears falling down my face,
Every time they look at me,
How can they not enjoy being around me,
When I try so hard to fake that I'm okay,
How come no help is offered and only threats of,
‘Go kill yourself' is thrown so lightly, like the words bring no pounding to me.
How can they not see how proud I am,
Every time they look at me?
How can they enjoy being around me,
When all I am is real?
How come help is offered to me,
And not to others who are dying?
Who thinks that this is okay,
Pushing away someone because they seem too happy,
Pushing someone away because they're not dramatic,
Pain is felt by all and the happiest usually hurt the most,
Ripping them apart until they become normopathies,
Faking every movement in the pleasure of others.
Who thinks that the world is broken,
Because a fraction of it is torn?
You don't throw away partially torn paper,
Or a little bit over ripe banana,
Or even a spoiled brat kid,
You keep it and fix it.
What has become of our world,
What has become of our words,
Pushing their way into our soul,
Until all we can mumble is,
Sticks and stones will break my bones and words will never hurt me,
And we all know that's a lie.
What has become of emotion?
What has become of what we think is depressing?
How come we say we're depressed,
When only a day or two a week is thought of our pains,
How come the true ones that need help,
Never have it offered?
When is it too bad to go through,
When you first begin,
And begin to lose parts of you like a puzzle,
Or when it begins to end,
When you want to end your life like school,
Or somewhere in between where you're almost gone but too afraid to show it?
When is it too dramatic?
When you've made yourself a reputation,
A reputation of hope and joy,
Or when you've made yourself a reputation,
A reputation of sorrow,
Because the sorrowful have permission to be sorrowful, but the happy do not?
Where was it all lost,
All of it thrown away like some thirty second poem,
In the bottom of our wastebaskets,
Hoping to someday take the life of another,
Words can break you until you give up all hope,
Or they can fix you when you need them the most.
Where did we go wrong?
How come our words are affecting us?
How come we spend hours thinking about them?
How come we're "too good" to share things about ourselves.
We're all a family,
And families stick together.
How come it has to be this way?
I honestly can't stand it.
I think about it daily,
Much more than someone should,
And I was thinking,
I over think these things.
Topic(s) of this poem: words
Form: Free Verse
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