Whining

Looking at all old and newish poems I've made, nearly all of them are sad. This goes for most people. Poetry is like venting for the slightly insane. I've come to accept that. It's like whining without the annoying wails. A beautifully evolved form of whining. It's always silly looking back on them. I think... was it really all that bad? It's great for a laugh. It's also great to actually realize how much I've changed. It reminds me of qualities and passions that I had at one point in time and lost somewhere along life. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not so much. Yes, I will look back and read these poems or blog entries and find me pathetic and dramatic as fuck, but it is inevitably apart of who I am. It all fits in.


With that said:



You're caught
I'm caught

You run endless laps on my mind track
My body pumps with every stamp of your feet
A running beat that pulses through my veins
Pushing, bursting, shaking me into a captive state

You're caught, tangled in my strings
I'm caught and the knot won't set me free

The most pathetic of moments reveal your shadow
Gusting at me like the wind of a storm
I stand sturdy, not a single flinch
I just let you come at me and chill me to stone

You're caught, spinning in the dust and dirt
I'm caught, blanketed in your filth and debris

I stand amongst the rubble that I admire
It's my creation, my art, my desire
Clutching a fist full of your ash and grime
Now placed in my pocket for another time

And you shall slip through the unpatched hole

You're caught between invisible walls
You're caught in unknown degrees
I'm caught between the maze of it all
I'm caught in the fact that you're free




*tear* Oh the mind of a terribly dramatic young woman.